


Hope is a Four-Letter Word

by GrumpyBones, Pageling



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Action, Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Alternate Universe-The Man from U.N.C.L.E., Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Gun Violence, Humor, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Spies & Secret Agents, Spock has an anger issue, Torture, but you don't need to have seen the movie to understand this fic, everyone is human, insults and stupid nicknames used as flirting, non-major character death, plot shamelessly stolen from "The Man from U.N.C.L.E"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-11 10:37:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 75,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20544770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrumpyBones/pseuds/GrumpyBones, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pageling/pseuds/Pageling
Summary: At the peak of Cold War tensions, the United States and the Soviet Union agree to temporarily put their political differences aside for the global good. In a mission to prevent the rise of nuclear war, CIA agent Kirk and the KGB agent Spock are selected as the best of the best by their respective countries, though neither has a record of being voted a team player. Thrust together in an attempt to save the world, the boys are fighting against a ticking clock and, not so secretly, each other.Will they be able to come together for the sake of completing the mission, or will their own differences stand in the way? Or worse-- will they end up liking each other instead?





	1. Out of the Garage

**Author's Note:**

> Hello dear friends. I hope you all have as much fun reading this ridiculous AU as we did writing it. Let us know what you think!
> 
> (Fair warning, this is essentially a Star Trek rewrite of the 2015 "The Man from U.N.C.L.E." movie, but like it says in the tags, you don't have to have seen it to understand the fic.)

“The American?” Spock prompts from the couch, fingers steepled together as he watches his handler, Oleg, pacing along the briefing room wall. Oleg snaps his fingers, and the grunt in the corner fumbles with a handful of slides.

“His name is James Kirk,” Oleg explains, standing still for a moment as he lights up a cigarette.

A projector screen flickers to life, illuminating the blank wall with the image of a young, fair haired man in United States WWII military regalia. The American’s smile is closed-lipped but impish, and the unusual glint in his pale eyes betrays the seriousness of his parade rest.

“He is not your typical American spy. Kirk joined the United States Army at age eighteen and was posted in Europe. After Hitler’s defeat, he stayed on as part of the occupying force. This is when he discovered vast profits to be made on the post-war black market.”

The assistant at the projector inserts another slide which shows Kirk and two other men, holding a series of still life paintings recently pried from their frames, standing before a suited man who appears to be a dealer. Kirk and his men are clearly presenting their spoils, hoping to sell. In contrast to the first image, this photograph shows Kirk’s mouth twisted into a decidedly serious line. Kirk’s gaze bypasses the dealer, eyes falling instead on the camera in his peripheral, posture carefully relaxed in a manner that hints at an exceptionally well hidden vigilance. The man is a walking contradiction, full of masks and ulterior motives. To a regular man, these tells might go unnoticed, but Spock is no regular man, and certainly no stranger to masks. As Oleg continues, he cannot take his eyes away from the projections.

“Kirk started selling and stealing high end art and antiques. He then proceeded methodically, teaching himself several languages, including German, Russian, Italian, and Japanese. His criminal ingenuity has made headlines all over Europe.”

The image of a newspaper clipping illuminates the wall, announcing a stolen Rembrandt and the bewilderment of the police concerning the distinct lack of evidence, resulting in no leads of any kind. Several similar newspaper headlines flicker by, Spock’s fascination growing with each one. A significant level of skill would have to be possessed in order to pull off such things and so a small part of him falls to impressed. Though disgust is close behind at the thought of such an intelligent being settling for larceny like a petty criminal.

“The police of four countries created a special task force with the sole purpose of bringing him to justice. And even then, it was luck that they caught him,” Oleg announces as the next image appears. It is very clearly a photograph taken in the processing center of a penal facility. Kirk’s expression is cool and blank, even as he holds up a panel with his personal information and the nature of his crimes, damning him to a prison sentence.

Spock wonders why they are discussing Kirk in such detail now that it is clear he has been apprehended, and the man is surely a minor point in the debriefing for the mission Spock is about to carry out.

Spock holds back a sigh as Oleg continues, proving his internal musings incorrect.

“Kirk did not remain imprisoned. This now infamous man’s story caught the attention of the CIA. They recognized that his extraordinary talents would have been wasted in prison. A deal was struck. Since then, Kirk has been the CIA’s most successful and prolific agent.”

Something churns in Spock’s stomach as Oleg places a thick file with Agent Kirk’s name across the top on the coffee table. The projector clicks off, and the room is dark but for the glowing red embers at the tip of Oleg’s cigarette.

“Kill Kirk if necessary. But he must not help the girl escape.”

What his actual mission is, Spock almost does not want to know.

—————

Agent Kirk approaches Checkpoint Charlie with an easy swing in his step and a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. The grimy window of the guard booth in front of him creates a warped reflection of the space over Kirk’s shoulder, where a tall, dark haired man lurks at the corner of a shopfront and disappears like a flash of smoke, when Kirk pauses to look. Kirk had expected to find someone sent to tail him at the onset of the mission, and apparently, he has not been disappointed.

The customs officer hands Kirk back his paperwork and the briefcase he’d submitted for inspection with a clipped farewell, allowing Kirk to continue onward into the streets of East Berlin. The cab that Kirk hails takes him swiftly to a mechanic’s garage in a part of town that was probably once beautiful, and comes to a squeaky halt under a flickering streetlight.

When Kirk steps out and approaches the cheerfully lit shop, there’s an old man wiping grease from his hands onto his coveralls and watching him with an unbothered curiosity. Kirk gives the mechanic his best diplomatic smile.

“_Excuse me, sir. Where is Fraulein Schmidt?_” he asks in effortlessly polished German.

“_Right over there, son._”

“_Thank you_,” Kirk replies, tipping his head respectfully before making his way inside the garage, honing in on a beautiful car-- a black and white Wartburg raised up on jacks--with a pair of clean but well-worn boots sticking out from beneath it. There’s a clamp light illuminating the car’s unusual workings beneath the raised hood, and Kirk can’t help himself.

“_I always thought the original 750cc engines were underpowered for their design, but this is quite the upgrade, _” he starts off, admiring the unconventional wiring that his mark has outfitted the vehicle with. “_Stick wings on that and all you’d need is a runway._”

Because Kirk is a man of taste, and his tastes are decidedly eclectic, the one thing that gets him going more than a good old-fashioned heist with a competent partner is a woman who knows her engineering. But then it gets better.

“Your accent is pretty good, for an American,” comes the echoing response in Kirk's native tongue, and Kirk can only raise an eyebrow as the beautiful woman he’s been assigned to extract scoots out from beneath the car.

“You look important,” she observes, eyeing Kirk with the calm and confidence of a woman who has seen her fair share of violence and understands how to handle it. It’s no surprise, with her living where she does. Her eyes flick down and back up, taking Kirk in. Her mouth twists into an unimpressed line. “Or, at least, your suit does.”

Kirk has to grin. He already likes her.

“Well, I can get you over the wall. Would you consider _that_ important, Fraulein _Schmidt_?” Kirk continues, nonplussed as the woman dismissively rolls herself back under the car to continue working on it. Kirk settles down at the woman’s desk and delicately plucks a stack of photographs from a little file organizer near the back. They’re not what he’s looking for, but they’re cute, and he’s nosy. The nosiness part is what makes him a good agent.

“A smart mouth to go with the suit. Statements like that can get you into a lot of trouble around here,” the woman’s voice echoes, tinny from where it bounces off the car’s underbelly.

If she is surprised or confused by Kirk’s offer, she does an excellent job of not showing it, wrench cranking beneath the vehicle’s forward axle.

“Words can get you into trouble, or they can get you out of it,” Kirk returns pointedly, flicking through the photos as the woman emerges from beneath the car once more and rolls her eyes at the sight of Kirk’s new seat.

“Make yourself comfortable, why don’t you,” she huffs, and Kirk ignores her sarcasm to toss down the loose photos and pick up a neatly framed one instead. He examines the figures for a moment before looking back at his mark with raised eyebrows. The woman glances between Kirk and the object in his hands, and seems to connect the dots, if she hadn’t already; Kirk’s not the usual garage patron here to chat, out for a stroll in the middle of the evening.

“Okay, Mister Important-Suit. Who are you and what do you want?” the woman asks, getting to her feet to lean against the car. She’s as cool as anything, and more level headed staring down a potentially dangerous stranger than half of the agents Kirk knows. Kirk grins and leans back in his appropriated chair.

“I’m here to chat about your father.”

“I don’t have a father.”

“Oh no, not your late foster father the mechanic,” Kirk breezes, watching his mark stiffen. “I mean your real father, Doctor Udo Uhura.”

Kirk turns the framed scene of a young, bright eyed girl on the lap of an animated looking man towards the woman in front of him as he speaks.

“Loving husband, engineering genius, and Hitler’s favorite rocket scientist,” Kirk finishes with a small, quick smile before he sets the photo down.

“That doesn’t sound very friendly,” the woman—not Schmidt, Uhura, Nyota—replies, appearing completely unthreatened as she continues to tinker, now with the engine under the raised hood of the car. “You’re wasting your time. I haven’t seen him for eighteen years.”

“Well, in case you were unaware, after the war he came to work for us. He’d been enjoying the American dream, had a great job working for the U.S. Nuclear Program... pleasant house in the suburbs, a new Cadillac and a fat little dog called Schnitzel,” Kirk explains, unlatching the briefcase he’d laid on the woman’s desk. If any of this is news to Nyota, she shows no sign, but Kirk isn’t easily deterred.

“Then, for no good reason, two years ago, he disappeared like steam from a teakettle,” Kirk announces, plucking out a singular photograph from his case, and freezing.

There, beside a pair of gloves and tucked neatly under the hem of a folded shirt, rests a bug. The tiny device has likely been transmitting everything Kirk has said to whoever is listening on the other end, most likely a Russian spy, if the gadget’s manufacturing roots are to be believed. Kirk curses himself for having been so distracted when he passed through the checkpoint at the wall. That’s the only place the bug could have been planted, and Kirk was too busy watching his tail’s reflection to watch the customs officers. If he wasn’t sure he was being followed before, Kirk is absolutely certain now.

Kirk swallows and shakes any surprise from his features as he lifts the device out of his case. If they bugged him and they’re listening, then they already know who he is and why he’s here. Stopping now won’t change that he’s been compromised, and Kirk still has to sell the young Miss Uhura on their impromptu trip. Kirk clears his throat and continues, knowing now that he has much less time to accomplish his task.

“Anyway, your father been M.I.A. for those two years, untraceable, until now. This was taken last week in Rome.”

Kirk holds out the photo of an aging Doctor Uhura and a woman emerging from a car. It’s blurry, shot by the quick hand of an undercover operative, but it’s clear enough to see exactly who is in the photograph. Uhura leans in to take a look and flicks her eyes up to meet Kirk’s, unimpressed.

“Which one is supposed to be my father?” she quips.

"Funny,” Kirk drawls, tucking the photo into an interior pocket of his suit jacket. “I’m told that if your daddy’s knowledge gets into the wrong hands, things could get a little messy. You know, end of the world. That kind of thing.” He’s fiddling with the device now, rolling it between his palms with the sort of giddy irreverence that drives his boss mad.

“What makes you think I know where he is?”

“I don’t think you do, but I think you know someone who does,” Kirk says, punctuating his hypothesis by pointing at Uhura with the bug. “Your mother’s brother. Uncle Rudi.”

Kirk finally rises and makes his way around the desk to stand before Nyota.

“I’ve also been told,” Kirk starts, dropping the microphone into a half empty cup of coffee with a satisfying clink, “that your father was never... actually a Nazi. He was forced to work for them. In case you had any doubts,” he adds with a quick flash of a teasing smile.

“So. I’m here to help. Why don’t you help me,” Kirk suggests, blue eyes open and earnest despite his firm tone.

“With what?” Uhura asks him, eyes narrowed as she looks him up and down once more.

“Well. If I had fifteen minutes, we’d grab a drink, eat something delicious, I’d talk, you’d laugh, we'd share a goodnight kiss, and we’d be on our way,” Kirk jokes, not entirely untruthful. Nyota is gorgeous, but he would almost rather be anywhere but here.

“Unfortunately,” he points to the window, “I don’t have those fifteen minutes. So. My offer is: come with me now, and be at a chic little hotel in West Berlin in less than an hour...”

As Kirk trails off, Nyota makes her way to the window and instantly grows stiff. A woman as bright as her, Kirk knows she has immediately spotted whatever goons have been sent to follow them that are posted outside. Nyota turns back to him, her expression tight. Kirk grins and continues, knowing he’s won, even if it looks like Uhura thinks he’s worth about as much as the grease on her shoes.

“Or,” he resumes cheerfully, “stay here and spend the night with the Russians, hanging from a pipe, having your toenails removed—_That_ is what I was looking for.”

Kirk happily drops his little monologue to pluck a crinkled map up from Nyota’s desk. The paper has seen better days, but it’ll work well enough for Kirk’s plans. Uhura has her hands clenched into fists at her sides, impatient or frustrated, Kirk doesn’t care, as long as she cooperates and he can get them both out of here. He snatches a red felt pen from Nyota’s belongings and turns around to flash her a charming smile.

“You mind if I borrow your car?”

—————

It only takes a few minutes to straighten up the car with Uhura’s quick thinking, and Kirk’s own suggestions. A few tweaks, and they’d had the old, decked-out Wartburg rolling out onto the poorly lit streets of East Berlin in record time. Kirk is in the rear seat, lying uncomfortably on his back so as not to be seen through the windows, the map clutched close to his face. Uhura handles the car like a dream, but in his current incommodious, scrunched up position, Kirk’s job still isn’t easy. He’s never been much of a navigator either. The winding lines of Berlin’s streets are more confusing than Kirk would have liked to admit, and he’s still busy attempting to draw out alternate escape routes on the map with his marker when the car begins to slow, signaling that they’re about to come up to their first stoplight.

Kirk sighs and quits nibbling on the plastic cap he’s been holding between his teeth for safekeeping, letting it fall unceremoniously onto the seat beside him.

“Could you pass me that brown paper bag from my case please?” he hums, eyes still darting over the map in search of options.

The light must be red, because they roll to a stop, and Uhura obeys wordlessly, though Kirk thinks he catches the woman rolling her eyes in the rearview mirror before returning her gaze to the road.

“Are they still following us?” Kirk asks, opening the paper bag to pull out a gun with little hurry. Uhura sighs and flicks her eyes up to glance in the rearview mirror.

There is a car behind them, further down the street, still at a distance but moving quickly enough that it’ll be joining them at the light soon. They both know it’s the same man they’d seen waiting for them through the auto shop window.

“Yes.”

Kirk takes the time to admire the smooth red leather upholstery of Nyota’s car for a moment, and then rolls his eyes heavenward, sending up a quick plea for forgiveness to the late car-enthusiast George Kirk. This is a gorgeous vehicle. Kirk’s not happy about what’s about to take place, even if he knows he’ll do his best not to damage Nyota’s beauty more than he has to. Things are bound to get messy in his line of work.

“Is there still just one of them?” Kirk continues, noting the rumble and eventual slow putter of an approaching engine that finally pulls up beside them. “Just hum if there is,” he adds, knowing that a solo woman in a car speaking to herself will look suspicious to anyone watching. He doesn’t want to lose the element of surprise.

Uhura hums, and Kirk grimaces a little as he lowers the backseat window by operating the crank with his foot, staying low and out of sight. A window going down on its own isn’t the most subtle, but it’s a better option than Kirk sticking his head up to do it, and he just has to hope that it will go unnoticed.

“Is he looking at us?”

Uhura side-eyes the second car’s driver and hums again, doing an excellent job of looking nonchalant. Kirk would be proud of her if he wasn’t busy trying to make sure what he was about to do won’t fall to pieces and get them both killed.

“Does he have just one hand on the steering wheel?”

Another hum.

Kirk nods to himself and quietly pulls back the hammer on his gun, knowing it's highly likely their tail is doing the same, and he does't have much time.

“When you hear something that sounds like a gunshot... drive,” Kirk instructs pleasantly, and then he moves.

Quick as lightning, Kirk folds himself in half to sit up in the backseat, putting two rounds through the glass of the neighboring car. Their own vehicle rockets off like Uhura has just dropped a cinderblock onto the pedal, and Kirk scrambles to find a more sturdy position, once he gathers the strength to peel himself off of the backseat.

“Did you get him?”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t drive as quickly as he ducks,” Kirk huffs, slightly bitter and unwilling to make the concession outright.

The shots were perfect, Kirk was fast, he knows. The bullets had gone straight into the driver’s window, right where a thick Russian skull should have been. But their tail had been faster than he had expected, a blur of motion behind fractured glass, and Kirk knows the shots hadn’t found their intended target.

The sound of a second furious engine joins in behind them and Nyota sighs.

“I’ve got news for you. He does.”

Kirk curses quietly and glances down at the map and his scribbled red escape routes.

“Make a right,” Kirk orders, and as Uhura maneuvers skillfully on the narrow streets. The tail continues to follow them, gaining fast until he’s right alongside them. Without warning, the Russian slams into the side of their car with his own, scraping their doors together with an otherworldly screech. Tires squeal as Nyota swings around a corner and the other car follows, still pressed close as if the driver had been expecting this move all along.

With a sense of bewildered exasperation, Kirk is absently forced to acknowledge that the guy knows what he’s doing. Maybe he has a map with escape routes plotted on it too, just like Kirk. Except now that Nyota is forced to freestyle to lose their pursuer, Kirk has to improvise.

“Take an immediate left,” Kirk huffs out, body going flying across the backseat to thump against the opposite wall with the speed and force of Uhura’s compliant sharp turn. Kirk winces but doesn’t complain. Their persistent tail is still with them, pushing against their vehicle with his own as he follows them around yet another corner like the cars are welded together. The guy is good.

In a moment of genius spontaneity, Uhura jerks the wheel to spin their car in the opposite direction, and their tail overcompensates in an attempt to stay pressed together, spinning wildly out of control in the opposite direction. Uhura peels away while their pursuer screeches and fishtails, and they lose sight of him behind a partition as Nyota shoots them down a new avenue.

“Nicely done!” Kirk breathes, inspired by genuine awe. However, as impressive as that was, Kirk knows they’re not off the hook yet. He quickly centers himself, scanning the map. Uhura has managed to temporarily shake their tail, but she’s also taken them off course again in doing so.

“Hold on to something,” Nyota warns, not actually giving Kirk any time to do so before she pulls a ridiculous spinning maneuver that seems to defy the laws of physics, and has Kirk thumping into the wall again. When the world stops twirling, Kirk realizes that Nyota has slid the car into a neat parking spot along the curb. She kills the engine, and Kirk rubs at the back of his head where he’d smacked into the window, fighting a wince, but still manages to keep his complaints to himself. They look for all the world like all of the other empty vehicles settled on the street for the night, quiet and inconspicuous, hiding in plain sight.

The car from before hurtles past them, missing them completely as he searches for a moving target.

Kirk whistles quietly and leans against the front seat. If Nyota had performed her maneuver even two seconds later, they would have been spotted. How Nyota had known that their little friend was about to make a reappearance, Kirk doesn’t know, but he finds himself glad for the woman’s excellent quick thinking.

“Is he gone?” Nyota asks, clearly proud of herself but bright enough to know that espionage and escape won’t be that easy. She’d be a natural spy, Kirk decides begrudgingly. There’s still a sinking feeling in his gut, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he considers her question.

“You know, I don’t think so.”

Kirk keeps his gun tucked carefully to his side and gets out of the car before turning back around to face Nyota. He watches her for a moment, considering, and decides that if she continues to drive as well as she already has, the new plan Kirk has in mind won't be a problem.

“Drive up onto the sidewalk. Reverse down it so that the parked cars are between you and the street. Then, drive around the block, and meet me back here,” he orders, flashing Uhura a grim smile. She levels him a mild glare in return, clearly not convinced by Kirk’s harebrained idea, but quietly begins to do as he says anyway.

As soon as Nyota’s pulled up onto the curb, headlights wisely still off as she inches backwards and out of sight, their tail returns, as if on cue.

The new car crawls backwards around the corner of the block, moving slowly in reverse towards the parking spot Nyota has just vacated, unknowingly passing Nyota as she reverses in the opposite direction. Kirk tucks himself behind the shelter of a parked car and waits.

The tail hesitates for a moment, just shy of the parking spot Nyota has just vacated and Kirk’s own hiding place, and for a moment, Kirk thinks they’ve got the man fooled. The moment is short-lived, shattered when the tail seems to catch on and shifts gears, taking off in the direction he had come, following Nyota.

Kirk grimaces and jumps out from his hiding spot to pad into the street. He levels his gun at the quickly disappearing target of the enemy’s car and fires off two shots to the vehicle’s tire.

This time, he doesn’t miss.

The car careens into a couple of garbage cans with an almighty clatter and stops, engine still running while smoke billows out of it and the shrill din of struck metal rings in the street. Nothing moves. It’s unlikely someone would survive a crash without any injuries at the kind of speeds the Russian was going, but the quiet is unsettling to Kirk. It’s almost too easy. Almost.

Untrusting of the silence, Kirk doesn’t take his eyes off of the still car even as he backs up to stand at the mouth of an alleyway and nearly gets himself run over by the car that’s suddenly reappearing at his heels. Startled, Kirk glances behind him to find Nyota watching him from the puttering Wartburg with an impatient expression before her gaze flicks further down the road towards the smoking wreck.

Kirk shoots her a mildly proud look when she meets his eyes again, and gets only an unimpressed shrug for his troubles. Knowing he shouldn’t be encouraging her flippancy, Kirk still laughs, unable to help himself as he slides into the backseat.

He gives Nyota a vague direction to head in as Kirk works out which of his pre-planned routes will serve them best, unable to feel completely at ease. At the wheel, Nyota continues her impression of a bat out of hell, so when the car lurches forward with even more speed a moment later, Kirk’s eyes jump up, already knowing what he’ll find.

“I think you should look out the window,” Nyota croons, falsely sweet with an undertone that practically oozes irritation. Kirk flops the map down into his lap, already twisting to look over his shoulder.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me. This guy doesn’t know when to quit.”

Flying out of nowhere, arms and legs pumping with inhuman speed as he sprints after them, is their tail, sans-car. Now that he’s directly within Kirk’s line of sight for more than a few seconds, he’s able to finally get a better look at their pursuer. The Russian seems freakishly tall, with a stony face and jet black hair under a neat cap. There isn’t much else Kirk can make out, lighting and timing not doing him any favors, but not for a lack of wanting to.

Watching in frozen disbelief, Kirk’s jaw drops when the man continues to push, actually managing to catch them in his sprint. Broad hands slam down on the small spoiler attached to the car’s trunk with an almighty racket, bringing out a horrible screeching sound as the Russian wraps his fingers around the metal.

“He’s trying to stop the car...” Kirk whispers to no one in particular, incredulous and a little impressed. The Russian has what seems like a death grip on the trunk and is digging his heels in against the cobblestones of the street, allowing himself to be dragged along. Unbelievably, it actually seems to be slowing them down.

“How heavy is that bastard?” Kirk wonders aloud, eyes wide as he watches the other agent through the rear window. The guy looks pissed off and determined, features twisted into a scowl. It would all be very admirable, if the situation weren’t so ridiculous, and Kirk’s heart wasn’t pounding in his throat.

“We’re struggling here,” snaps Nyota, and even then Kirk can’t look away. He’s a little terrified, but enraptured all the same. “Why don’t you take a shot at him?” she hisses, and Kirk shakes his head, eyes locked on the agent’s face.

“Somehow, it just doesn’t seem like the right thing to do.”

The entire back panel of the trunk comes screeching off in their tail’s hands, and Kirk’s mouth is dry as he watches the scene unfold. The sudden break clearly startles the Russian enough to send him stumbling at the abrupt shift in balance, and the car jolts forward without him.

The loss of the other agent is all they need for Nyota to speed up and finally put some distance between them, bits of loose metal falling from the back of the car into the street.

Even at this distance, Kirk notices when a particular look passes over the Russian’s face, and then he’s barely given enough time to duck when the man hurls the detached trunk after them like a frisbee. The metal strikes the rear window as Kirk flinches back, the hit thankfully only spiderwebbing the intact glass, but it interferes enough with Kirk’s view that he’s jolted back to reality.

“First left, then an immediate right,” Kirk barks, hastily refocusing as the man astonishingly starts sprinting after them again. The bastard is persistent, if nothing else, and really, Kirk needs to get ahold of himself before he starts making bedroom eyes at the person trying to kill them. Nyota obeys but shakes her head as they screech into a narrow alley.

“This road isn’t taking us anywhere.”

She’s right, if only in the sense that it is, actually, a dead end. Kirk is unwilling to concede her point, the scene they’ve just left leaving him a tad too flustered to argue. Not that he’d admit that, either.

“It’s taking us where we need to go.”

The walls begin to feel like they’re closing in on them, and even though Kirk knows what he’s doing, the claustrophobic feeling still isn’t escapable.

“It’s getting narrower,” Nyota announces, clear trepidation in her voice even as she bravely continues to drive onward, thankfully trusting Kirk for now.

“All part of the plan,” Kirk reassures her, confidence saturating the smile she’s too busy driving to see. The alley walls get closer and closer together, until car comes squealing to a sudden, painful stop, wedged between the two apartment buildings. They’re stuck just about twenty yards short of the Wall. The tense line of Nyota’s shoulders tells Kirk all he needs to know about how soon she plans on snapping his head off.

“Good plan,” the woman quips, acidic and bright as she whips around to glare at him from the front seat. “Now all we have to do is get out of this metal coffin, over two twenty-foot walls, and across a minefield. What’s your plan now?”

And yeah, maybe the sight of the East’s guard posts and miles of barbed wire spooled out between them and their safety is a little intimidating, but Kirk, as always, is well prepared. Kirk hops into the front bench with all the grace he can muster in the confined space before leaning over Uhura’s lap, cranking down her window with an innocent smile.

“Take a left. Through that,” Kirk explains pleasantly, gesturing to the open window of an apartment that has lined up with them perfectly. Uhura takes one look at the guards patrolling the wall who have obviously noticed them, and climbs into the building. He moves to follow, halfway out of the car when he glances behind them to see their tall, dark, and mysterious Russian tail appearing in the mouth of the alleyway.

“This way,” Kirk barks as he falls into the apartment, only a little ungraceful as he gets his feet under him, urgency renewed at the reminder of being followed. He stumbles past Nyota and steers her through the cluttered apartment they’ve just broken into, until they make it into the hall.

From there, they find the stairwell and begin to climb. The multiple flights leave both of them slightly winded at the top, and when they finally reach the open roof, Kirk slides a stray metal bar into the trapdoor’s latch. It should function as a temporary deadbolt, locking it shut until they can make their escape. Extra security, in the not so unlikely chance that their friend catches up again.

“What are we doing here?” Nyota growls, taking in their new surroundings. “You’ve stranded us on top of a building.”

“What we are doing, is waiting for Agent Sulu.”

The trapdoor starts rattling behind them as someone attempts to open it. Kirk swallows. Apparently their tail is even faster than Kirk gave him credit for. He figured that they would have at least another few minutes of breathing room, but apparently the man climbs stairs as efficiently as he chases cars.

The rattling stops for an eerie moment of silence where Kirk doesn’t dare to hold his breath, before a sudden barrage of pings and resulting dents start forming with rapid speed in the metal door. It’s clear now that the Russian agent is willing to shoot his way through to them if necessary, and Kirk would be antsy if he didn’t have such total faith in his crew. They just need the door to hold out until backup arrives.

The floodlights on the Berlin Wall blink on with such blinding force that Kirk curses quietly and almost misses the grappling hook that shoots out of nowhere to secure itself to one of the building’s chimneys. As always, Kirk’s team is just in time.

Kirk barely has time to be relieved when, behind them, the trapdoor bursts open with a shriek of grating metal to reveal a very unhappy Russian crawling out like some long-limbed spider. Kirk swallows and abruptly drags Uhura into his arms, despite her loud protesting.

“Hug me,” he commands, and that’s all the warning she gets before Kirk pulls out a sturdy, double-handled cord and loops it over the wire attached to the hook. He steps off the roof with a giddy flash of exhilaration, into the nothingness, before the line has them zipping along it across the chasm. The open-backed truck that awaits them on the West side of the wall provides a rough landing pad, but they manage to tumble unscathed into the bed. Kirk wastes no time letting go of his cord to free them.

“Reverse, Agent Sulu,” Kirk shouts to their driver, eyes widening as he turns around to the sight of their tail following along on the zip line with his coat tossed over the wire to make an impromptu handle. Sulu listens without question, the line going slack from lack of tension as the truck backs up towards the wall, causing the Russian loses his momentum, and sag limply over the neutral zone between East and West.

Kirk allows himself a brief moment to lock eyes with the man, practically feeling the hatred pouring across their connection, before lifting his gun and severing the zip line with a bullet. Their contact breaks with the cable, and the Russian drops into the dirt behind the wall, out of sight. Kirk, inexplicably, regrets the loss. The engine of their truck roars as Sulu shifts gears and creates some distance between them and the wall with all the speed they can muster.

—————

The safe house isn’t the nicest place, Kirk knows that, but it’s one of his favorites. It’s not even really a CIA established post, but a holdout left over from Kirk’s own solo forays into playing hide-and-seek with the law after the war. There’s a well stocked kitchen, respectable furniture, and quiet neighbors. Nyota clearly hates it.

“You lied. This place isn’t chic. It isn’t even a real hotel. It’s a flat.”

Kirk rolls his eyes and turns away from the pot he’s stirring on the stove, adjusting the apron tied around his waist. “No, but it’s safer. And the food isn’t bad,” he adds, never shy about self-promotion. He grabs a plate and lifts his wooden spoon to scoop out some white truffle risotto and passes it over to Uhura.

She takes it with a frown.

“What is that? It smells like feet.”

Kirk presses his lips together and tries not to regret pouring Uhura her third glass of wine.

“Expensive feet,” he corrects, not really caring, more trying to convince Uhura that he has some taste. He likes her, but she seems like a difficult woman to please. When Uhura takes a bite of the risotto and doesn’t make a face, though she hardly looks impressed, Kirk still counts it as a minor victory.

There’s a polite knock on the doorframe, and Sulu steps into the kitchen with a tight smile.

“He’s here,” the agent announces, and Kirk sighs. He hasn’t gotten a chance to eat his own dinner, but he follows his friend down the hall into the sitting room.

Alexander Marcus is seated in one of the ratty old armchairs, watching President Kennedy make another speech about the war and not working with the Russians on the television. These days, it’s always all about the Russians. After his special little encounter today, Kirk is particularly sick of them.

“I trust that Miss Uhura was helpful?”

Kirk responds with a nod while making his way into Marcus’s line of sight, shooting Sulu a grateful look as he moves. The other agent gives Kirk a sympathetic smile and makes himself scarce, probably to interrogate Uhura some more about the modifications the woman had made to the car they’d so regrettably had to leave on the other side of the Wall.

Stepping closer to Marcus, Kirk wipes his sweaty hands off on his apron, prepared to give a report on his mission now that he’s finally done. It had taken days of intel gathering and prep to complete, but securing Nyota had been the last step. Kirk is finally finished, and he couldn’t be more relieved.

“You were right. The uncle, Rudolph Von Trulsch, is our best shot at tracking down Doctor Uhura—Nyota’s father.”

The older man eyes him and settles back further into the chair. “That’s it? That’s all you got?”

Kirk resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“He lives in Italy. Rome. Works for company called Singh Shipping and Aeronautics. And now, you have what you need to finish this. I brought you Miss Uhura, your in to Uncle Rudi. My work here is done,” Kirk retorts, a little irritated.

Marcus shakes his head, looking disappointed.

“We already knew all that, Kirk. Your job here is done when I tell you it’s done.”

“You told me this was gonna be a simple extraction,” Kirk fires back.

“It should have been. I didn’t ask you to light up half of East Berlin,” Marcus points out, and yeah, maybe the execution had been a little messier than his usual, but that hadn’t been Kirk’s fault. That flicker of irritation in his chest shifts into indigence, and Kirk has to take a deep breath to keep from losing his temper with his superior officer.

“They were waiting for me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. They follow everybody.”

Kirk narrows his eyes and decides that he isn’t done arguing, not by a long shot. He’s not going to lie down and take the full blame for the incident just because Marcus is in a bad mood.

“What was waiting for me was barely human,” he insists, riled up now that Marcus isn’t even bothering to look at him, instead turning his attention back to the television. “You should have seen it _run_.”

“Grow a spine, Kirk. Contrary to what you may think, we are not in the business of nonsense. I don’t want to hear your science-fiction stories.”

“I don’t think you understand, sir. It _tore the back off our car_,” Kirk presses, thinking of how the Russian sprinted after them with freakish speed, of strong hands gripping metal until it gave way—the man was unreal. He was like something a crazed Russian scientist would have dreamed up in a lab when hoping to concoct the perfect super spy. Marcus didn’t _get it_.

“Remind me, Kirk,” Marcus huffs, standing with creaking joints. “How long was your prison sentence?”

Kirk shuts his mouth but doesn’t look away, eyes stormy. Marcus often means well, but he had gotten his high ranking in the CIA by riding desks, not by working in the field. He’s a man of politics, making his living by placing phone calls and writing up papers from the safety of his office, not by being on the wrong side of a loaded gun. The man is detached. Clinical. He doesn’t have the type of experience Kirk has and never will, which sometimes makes the man an ass.

But Kirk does owe Marcus. The man had been the one to reluctantly broker Kirk the deal that allowed him his relative freedom as an agent instead of wasting away in a jail cell. Kirk just doesn’t like the situation being held over his head like this. It isn’t Marcus’s usual MO either, and that has to mean this case with Rudi Von Trulsch, Doctor Uhura, and his daughter Nyota is more important than anyone in the CIA wants to let on.

“You owe me five more years, Kirk. Don’t you forget it,” Marcus starts again, ignoring his agent’s dark look. “Now, I know you’ve been… taking care of yourself on the side. Wetting your beak, so to speak. We don’t pay you enough to be putting truffles in your risotto.”

Kirk does not let himself blush. He doesn’t. He also very pointedly does not look at the neatly hung Kirchner or the other paintings waiting to be pawned on his walls.

“Don’t ever make the error of mistaking my deliberate short-sightedness for blindness,” Marcus threatens. “Now, you report for duty tomorrow morning, nine a.m. sharp. And with a better attitude,” Marcus grouses, leveling Kirk with one last look before disappearing out the front door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points to anyone who knows where the chapter titles are coming from ;)


	2. Jimmy, Renda Se

“Look at them,” Marcus starts, adjusting the wet brim of his hat as they stroll along the outskirts of a city park.

The grizzled man is buttoned up in a long coat, and Kirk makes use of a wide umbrella, unwilling to let his own attire get soggy. It’s a hazy morning with tempestuous bouts of spitting rain that have pedestrians skittering between buildings and taking shelter under the park’s trees like mice in the shadows. Kirk doesn’t answer, but Marcus is undeterred as he watches the civilians go about their everyday lives.

“Merrily oblivious as we labor tirelessly to save them from extinction, and not even a thank-you.”

Kirk very graciously fights the urge to roll his eyes. Marcus is usually cold and irritable, but for some reason, today he seems especially bitter.

“A little tired this morning, sir?”

“You would be too if you’d been up all night trying to sort this mess out,” Marcus replies, sighing as he gestures for Kirk to follow him into the park’s public restroom. Wrinkling his nose, Kirk hesitates outside for a moment before following his handler in with obvious disgust. Just because Marcus told him to fix his attitude doesn’t mean he’s going to be perfectly pleasant. And Kirk never could resist opening his mouth.

“Anything in particular here, sir? Or… are you just looking?” Kirk asks, dry and sarcastic as he folds up his umbrella.

Marcus grunts in reply as he steps up to a urinal and undoes his pants to relieve himself. Kirk looks balefully up at the ceiling. They could be having this conversation anywhere, but Marcus must really be punishing him for his outburst last night, because here Kirk is, stuck in a glorified outhouse on a rainy morning, doing _this_ while he waits for his handler to get on with the mission debrief already. He has a feeling that it’s going to be one hell of a lousy day.

“What I’m about to feed you, Kirk, might taste a little sour. Nevertheless, you’re gonna have to swallow it.”

Now Marcus is getting cryptic, Kirk reflects, and that’s never a good sign. The agent braces himself and tries not to breathe too deeply.

“Where are we going with this, sir?” Kirk pleads, lowering his eyes from the ceiling and turning to face away from Marcus, only to be met with an eyeful of black, too close for comfort. Startling, Kirk drops his umbrella with a clatter and nearly jumps out of his skin, grim horror settling over him as he steps back and takes in the sight of what has invaded his personal space.

It’s his tail from last night, a towering pillar wrapped in a boiled wool coat, cashmere scarf, and a snug knit cap. They maintain eye contact for less than a second, where Kirk has a moment to register the other man's eyes are wide with shock and fury, and then he is being shoved bodily into a stall with a strangled shout, a hard forearm pressed against his throat.

Kirk’s recovers quickly, one arm bolting out to snatch the Russian’s and put him in a wrist lock that should have helped pry the other agent off, but then the man is twisting out of it faster than Kirk can blink, an arm finding its way around Kirk’s throat in a merciless choke hold just as fast. There’s no room to maneuver out of it, so Kirk does all he can and shoots his arms up to grip his attacker’s bicep and wrist, yanking down with all his might to keep the curled arm from blocking the blood flow to his brain. It’s not enough, and Kirk has to act fast, before the dizziness becomes too much.

Thrashing furiously, Kirk manages to throw himself back into the Russian, toppling them both into the partition behind them with enough force that it collapses into the neighboring stall. A small victory is won when in the scramble to catch his footing, the Russian lets go. Kirk gasps in a rough breath and tries to dart away, but a heavy hand lands on his shoulder and the world spins as he’s thrown against the wall of the next stall, and the air is once again knocked from his chest when this partition breaks away as easily as the first.

When Kirk miraculously gets his feet underneath him it’s only to find himself face to face with the Russian, and Kirk can’t allow himself to think, he just moves. The American doesn’t hesitate, gripping the man’s lapels while hooking a leg behind his knee, knocking them both to the ground. The Russian goes down hard, apparently heavier than he looks. Befre Kirk can use the distraction to crawl away, the man throws himself over Kirk’s back and an arm finds its way around his neck once more. Kirk begins to choke as the Russian flips them over so that Kirk is seated in the lap of the man behind him, cradled to his chest as he is squeezed, the corners of his vision beginning to darken, and no amount of pulling or thrashing seems to help.

Kirk has a fuzzy moment to wonder what this guy’s deal with asphyxiation is when a new man strolls into the bathroom and greets an impassively spectating Marcus by name. Now Kirk knows he’s dying and there’s not enough oxygen getting to his brain, because he’s being cuddled to death by the enemy, and his own handler is letting it happen. The betrayal stings, but Kirk has always known that he’s living on borrowed time. Maybe the CIA has finally decided he’s more trouble than he’s worth and sent in the Russians to finish him off in some sort of cosmic twist of fate.

Marcus continues to ignore Kirk’s slow death and he greets the newcomer in Russian. A too long moment passes, and Kirk’s vision is nearly black when the stranger addresses Kirk’s attacker.

“_Не убивай своего партнера в первый день._”

Kirk’s head is swimming when the arm around his neck uncurls with painful slowness, clearly not entirely willing. Kirk is too busy gasping, his back pushing against a warm chest as his lungs gulp for air to immediately remove himself from the clearly still aggravated threat.

It takes Kirk an inexcusable amount of time to regain his senses, and he finally flings himself out of his attacker’s lap to scramble to his feet. Feeling sick, Kirk leans over with his hands on his knees and coughs raggedly as his abused throat attempts to make up for all of the time he’s lost without the ease of breathing.

“What the hell does that mean?” Kirk rasps, glaring daggers at everyone else in the room while he tries not to pass out. Kirk knows he sounds awful, like he’s swallowed an ashtray, and he hopes it strikes some guilt in Marcus’s cold, dead heart. When the older man finally decides to speak, Kirk wishes he hadn’t asked.

“He said, ‘don’t kill your partner on your first day,’” Marcus translates, and Kirk shoots the man a look that could melt steel. His handler knows Kirk is fluent in Russian.

“I know what he said. What does it mean?”

—————

“The main ingredient of an atom bomb is enriched uranium. Doctor Uhura was on the verge of a breakthrough which would massively simplify the production process,” Marcus explains, picking disinterestedly at his salad. Kirk takes a too-large bite out of his sandwich.

One thing Marcus and Kirk could always agree on was that salads didn’t count as real food. But as they sat at the tiny café table with the Russian and his handler, discussing mission parameters like old friends, Marcus had made the mistake of asking Kirk to order for him. It isn’t much in the ways of revenge, but Kirk has decided to take pleasure in the little things. He deserves it after last night, and the morning he’s had.

“Yes, Doctor Uhura’s potential breakthrough would make it possible for almost anyone to build a nuclear device,” Oleg adds, exchanging a glance with his dark haired agent. The younger Russian isn’t eating anything, and is instead cradling a cup of steaming tea.

Marcus throws a folder onto the table between them and gestures for their foreign counterparts to examine the contents. It’s been a few hours since the incident in the bathroom, and each party has been given the opportunity to recover and brief their agents, but Kirk still isn’t used to the idea of handing over all their hard earned intelligence to the men he’s been trained to think of as enemies only. He especially doesn’t like it when the man in particular is the same one who had nearly made him botch the entire extraction operation in Berlin only the night before. This agent had just been actively attempting to commandeer Nyota for his own side, and now it seems the two of them will have to share. Marcus opens his mouth to speak, though Kirk simply tunes him out, having already heard the information in the quick briefing they’d done before coming to the café to convene with the Russians.

“We believe that the Singh Shipping and Aeronautics Company in Rome, where Miss Nyota Uhura’s Uncle Rudi is a senior executive, is the cover for an international criminal organization with ties to former Nazis. The late founder, Sergio Singh, was a friend of Mussolini’s and a known fascist. Rumor has it that Sergio was responsible for smuggling Nazi gold to South America after the war. The company is now run by Sergio’s son, Khan Noonien Singh, and Khan’s wife Marla.

“Khan, he’s more of a playboy than a tycoon, though he’s just as cunning and fiercer than you would expect. And Marla… well, she’s something else altogether. All our information indicates a lethal combination of beauty, brains, and ambition. She’s the real fanatic. Now that the old man is dead, she’s running the show. With Doctor Uhura’s disappearance and connections to the company via his brother-in-law Rudi, we have reason to believe that Doctor Uhura is working for the Singhs. Whether he’s doing it willingly or not doesn’t matter. Imagine the consequences if Doctor Uhura builds an atomic bomb for these people, or his research is distributed to other hostile entities. We have to stop them.”

Oleg takes in Marcus’s information and nods gravely.

“We have no choice but to work together on this issue,” he concedes levelly, looking about as happy at the fact as Kirk feels. Oleg turns to face both his own agent and Kirk, addressing them as one.

“Your mission is to infiltrate the Singh organization and retrieve Doctor Uhura and his research. His information will be located on a computer disk. Whoever has that disk… will be the most powerful nation in the world. You, Agent Kirk, are to investigate Marla and Khan Singh. Agent Spock will focus on establishing a lead through Miss Uhura and her Uncle Rudi.”

Marcus nods and rises from the table, and Oleg mirrors his movements.

“We’ll let you two get acquainted,” Marcus announces, looking all too thrilled to be abandoning both his salad and Kirk. The handlers then take their leave, and Kirk is left alone for the first time with Agent Spock.

Silence stretches on long after the handlers have disappeared, and as irate as Kirk is at the FUBAR mission that’s been thrown in his lap, he’s willing to swallow his pride for now, for the sake of getting things done. Even if it means working with the enemy, and the one man in particular who has made Kirk’s life a living hell the past few days. Kirk didn’t think that it was possible for any human being to be more put-out than him at the moment, but the way Spock sits like he’s trying to simultaneously disappear and intimidate Kirk into leaving, he’s definitely giving Kirk a run for his money.

The agent is stiff as a board and looks like he’d rather be anywhere else but with Kirk. He looks unfairly good with his dark, straight hair and high cheekbones, dressed in a simple black knit shirt with a high collar that does nothing to hide the lithe column of his neck, now that he’s abandoned his scarf and hat. Kirk is unreasonably distracted by the way the shirt pulls tight across Spock’s chest under his undone coat.

“I was briefed about you,” the Russian begins, speaking in a slightly accented, velvet tone that has Kirk’s eyes widening and a pleasurable shiver running down his spine. It figures, the guy would have a gorgeous voice to match his sculptural face and equally toned body.

It’s obvious that his new partner thinks Kirk is worth next to nothing, and that he is much too good to be working with the American agent. It doesn’t stop Kirk’s traitorous stomach from doing flips at being addressed in that sultry, haughty tone. Kirk decides not to give the man the satisfaction of rising to his bait, choosing to stay silent so as to encourage Spock to continue speaking, if only to hear more of that devastating voice.

It seems to work. Spock watches Kirk with a dark, considering gaze, looking at the American through his eyelashes as he takes another sip of his tea, and sets it down to continue with an economy and purpose to his motions that has Kirk's own mouth dry.

“You have a distinctly corrupt criminal background, and maintained a distastefully roguish lifestyle until you were caught and blackmailed into legitimacy by the CIA…” Spock trails off, and some of the butterflies in Kirk’s stomach begin to melt away as anger sets in with his new partner’s disapproving attitude. Kirk’s hands curl into fists in his lap as the Russian continues.

“What interests me, given your profile, is what would motivate a man like yourself to become the CIA’s most effective agent.” Spock pauses and sniffs, looking down his nose at Kirk. “I have concluded that it must be to counteract the humiliation of knowing you are kept at the end of a very long leash, held by a very small man.”

For a brief second, Kirk sees red. Spock has hit him exactly where it hurts. The one thing Kirk hates most about his life as it stands is his lack of free will, being bound to an organization that only puts up with him because it needs to, and the fact that no matter how productive he is as an agent, how many expectations he exceeds, he will never be good enough. Kirk can compensate with exemplary performance, or with shows of expensive taste and bespoke suits, but there will always be people like Marcus and Spock, only willing to see Kirk as the backwater, seedy criminal of his past. Kirk will be proving himself against his history for the rest of his life, and he hates it.

It would be so easy, now, to rise up and wrap his own hands around the Russian’s long, elegant neck and squeeze, crush the fine bones of his throat and listen to the man gasp and fade away. Spock would deserve it, especially after how many times he had nearly done the same to Kirk this morning. But Kirk is beyond that particular brand of recklessness now, having left that side of himself with the military. These days, Kirk favors the thrill that the finer art of high risk thievery and deception over the rush that getting himself punched in the face provides. Besides, physically attacking the man would only further Spock’s poor opinion of him. Kirk would rather let the man choke on his own biassed assumptions.

Kirk lets out a slow breath through his nose and takes a moment to center himself, wiping all expression from his face. He’s an ace in a fight, but Kirk is also more intelligent than is truly good for him. Thankfully, in this case, this means that Kirk has done his own research on Spock, and has come just as prepared. Two could play at the Russian’s game, and Kirk is delightfully good at games. He plans to use every tool in his wheelhouse to get under Spock’s skin and make him regret his unfounded prejudices.

Kirk settles back in his chair, purposefully relaxing his shoulders and opening his stance. He’s not exactly threatened by Spock, or he at least doesn’t want to show it, and he can already tell that this kind of laid back attitude is going to drive Spock right up the wall, once he realizes it’s attached to a brilliant brain. Nobody likes to be outsmarted by someone who looks like they’re not even trying.

Kirk nods and tosses his linen napkin onto his plate, abandoning his now half-eaten sandwich. He has a feeling he won’t be getting back to it after this, and quietly mourns the waste of a good meal.

“I’m sure you understand humiliation. Better than most,” Kirk quipps, circling back to Spock’s own insult and smiling as he meets the agent’s eyes. It’s obviously not the response Spock is expecting, and for one brief moment, the Russian looks adorably startled, though there’s something ominous lurking behind those soulful eyes.

“How so?” the man asks, voice flat as he visibly schools his face into an impassive mask. Kirk smiles wider when Spock takes the bait, and decides to indulge his new partner.

“Well, after your performance last night, I thought I’d read up on you. It’s almost tragic, how simple it is to access your country’s files.”

Spock’s entire body is tense, and with that little move, Kirk has already counted this as a win, but he doesn’t stop. He needs to see how far he can push his new partner, and he hasn’t quite finished showing off yet.

“You’ve got a pretty sad story, with your dad being a big pal of Stalin’s and a top government official with all the perks and privileges… right up until he was caught embezzling party funds. How old were you when he was sent to the Gulag? Ten? Eleven years old?”

Spock’s fingers are twitching where they remain curled around his teacup, index finger playing an erratic tattoo on the porcelain. His eyes bore into Kirk’s, the warm brown of his irises appearing so dark in the dim lighting that the American can hardly make out his pupils. Kirk has probably said enough to get his point across—enough to put Spock in his place and show the Russian he’s not working with just some naive imbecile who’s still wet behind the ears. It’s enough. Really, it is. But the heated look in Spock’s eyes has Kirk hypnotized, sucked in and eager for more.

“Was that when the psychotic episodes started?” Kirk asks with false sweetness, taking advantage of the beautiful opportunity that has just presented itself. As he speaks, Kirk tips his chin to Spock’s twitching fingers and watches how the Russian’s jaw clenches with restraint. The tapping fingers are an unusual tic—a tell he’d read about in Spock’s file— a documented precursor to what the Russian agency apparently considered ”legendarily volatile breakouts of physical aggression.” Now that he’s apparently gotten one started, Kirk wants to see one of these episodes for himself, to know what he’s working with. He isn’t the type of man to throw the first punch, but provoking Spock into attacking him and making him sink down to Kirk’s level—now that would be delicious.

“I know, I know. You got over it, right? The volcanic eruptions of fiery rage…” Kirk presses, sarcasm dripping from his tone as he continues to watch Spock’s contradictorily twitching fingers.

“The KGB wouldn’t put up with you, if they knew how little control you had over your emotions…” he adds almost to himself, voice soft for a moment as he considers the consequences of what is about to happen. Maybe if he gets Spock to react wildly in an instigation of unfounded violence, he can report it back to the Russian’s handler and Spock will be removed from the mission. Eager, Kirk keeps going, mentally reaching further into what he’d read about Spock. Kirk leans in across the tiny table between them, blood burning with excitement when Spock’s eyes flash and narrow as their gazes lock.

“Your file says you were the youngest man to join the KGB… In fact, it says that you happen to be their best agent, earning that title in only three years. It’s impressive. But I have to wonder… was it your father’s shame that gave you that drive? Or was it your mother’s reputation? I understand that she was… extremely popular amongst your father’s friends, after he was shipped off to Siberia.”

Kirk doesn’t even see the fist coming. There is only pain searing across his temple with a faint pop of noise, and he’s out like a light.

—————

“America is teaming up with Russia… Is this a joke?” Nyota asks, sprawled out on the department store’s couch in a frankly exquisite outfit Kirk had helped her pick out. It’s a far cry from her mechanic’s jumpsuit, but Nyota is a woman of class, and she wears the fine clothing well. Kirk takes a moment to passively admire her figure and shakes his head.

“It should tell you how important this mission is. To everyone,” he sighs, inspecting a new dress that he’ll suggest Nyota try on with the jade earrings she’s holding in her hand.

“I’m not going back behind that wall to work on cars for the rest of my life. And at the end of this, that’s what they’ll want.”

“You don’t have to go anywhere you don’t want to go,” Kirk promises kindly. “You’re the star of this show. We need you to make it all work.”

Nyota gives Kirk a surprisingly soft look and opens her mouth to respond when Agent Spock chooses that moment to come strolling into the store, his dark, tailored suit fluttering with the brisk pace of his walk. Kirk freezes at the sight of him, heart rate picking up, be it in preparation for a fight, or something else Kirk doesn’t have time to deal with. Spock looks every bit the powerful agent Kirk knows him to be, but now that he’s outfitted himself in formalwear rather than the rougher, more functional garb of a mission, his looks are practically devastating.

On top of it all, Kirk’s bruised temple begins to throb with phantom pain, his body remembering what had happened the last time he and Spock had met. The last time they’d seen each other, Spock had knocked Kirk out and carried him to Marcus’s doorstep to leave him there like an abandoned ragdoll. It had been weeks ago, and Kirk still isn’t over it.

Marcus had laughed his ass off at the episode and brought it up at every opportunity, when he wasn’t busy yelling at Kirk for provoking his new partner into such a situation in the first place. Apparently, even though Kirk had tattled about Spock’s little anger issue, Marcus had dismissed the situation, blaming it on Kirk’s big mouth and snarky attitude. The American had sulked about it for days. He’d suffered a blow to the face, and a round of unconsciousness, only to be dumped on his superior officer’s doorstep like a sack of potatoes for nothing. And now, after all of that, he’s still stuck working with Spock, who now undoubtedly hates him all the more.

If the vaguely dark look behind Spock’s impassive features is anything to go by, Kirk is right in assuming that Spock is not at all thrilled to see him. It’s not clear where they stand after the café incident, or how they’ll even be able to work as a team after the nasty things each of them had said to the other. Kirk has to hope that the little time they’ve been given between interactions has been enough to heal at least some wounds. 

Kirk had been putting off telling Nyota that Spock would be joining them today, considering the last time she’d seen the Russian, he had been the one thing that nearly cost both her life and her escape from East Berlin. Now, Kirk wonders if he should have divulged sooner.

Nyota has risen to her feet beside Kirk, watching Spock with wary eyes as he approaches, standing too close before tucking his hands behind his back. Spock wordlessly inspects her gold jewelry and thick coat before turning his nose up at them.

“My fiancée would never wear anything like that,” Spock announces in lieu of an actual greeting. Kirk sighs.

“What is he doing here?” Nyota asks warily, keeping her eyes on Spock as she turns her body to Kirk, addressing the question to him. Kirk can’t help but admire her bravery and complete lack of fear when faced with a terror from her past without explanation.

“I told you, we’re teaming up with the Russians,” Kirk deadpans, offering a small, apologetic smile. “I just didn’t tell you which one we’d be working with in particular.”

Nyota looks like she’s only a few seconds away from giving Kirk the telling-off of his life, so he brightens his smile and quickly turns away from her to gesture to the Russian beside them, changing the subject and removing the focus from himself.

“Miss Nyota Uhura, meet Agent Spock.”

Nyota looks Spock up and down, shaking her head like she can’t believe what she’s seeing. Kirk probably wouldn’t believe it either if he wasn’t already so deeply entrenched in the absolute absurdity of the mission. Nyota had been given no such warning or time to warm up to Spock’s sudden reappearance.

“Doesn’t get any more Russian than the Red Peril here,” Kirk jokes, testing the waters and trying to break the tension in the room as he gestures to their new teammate, moving away so that Spock and Nyota can introduce themselves.

“Don’t let his calm facade fool you either. The man’s a crate of dynamite waiting to explode,” Kirk advises, turning from Nyota to Spock. He hasn’t forgotten about the way the Russian had punched him out without a second thought, or the feeling of the light leaving his eyes as an iron arm constricted around his neck. Kirk is definitely still bitter, and he doesn’t mind airing his grievances.

“I should start calling you Vulcan, the Roman god of fire. It’ll be appropriate once we actually get where we’re going,” Kirk mutters, acknowledged only by Spock’s twitch of an unimpressed eyebrow. He’s got a tough audience today.

“Why did he call me his fiancée?” Nyota asks, ignoring Spock and apparently unintimidated by his stiff, overbearing attitude. Kirk could kiss her for it. Before the American can answer her and attempt to smooth things over, Spock beats him to it.

“It is because as of now, I am your fiancé,” the Russian states matter-of-factly, expression blank as he stares over Nyota’s shoulder at the wall. Nyota takes one look at the rigid, carefully emotionless man before them and shakes her head.

“No, no, no,” she chants, systematically stripping off her jewelry and the coat she’d been sampling. Nyota tosses the items at the couch with one last emphatic “no,” and brushes past Spock on her way to the door. Spock has the audacity to look confused, handsome face slack and arms hanging loosely at his sides as he watches her go. Kirk can’t help but roll his eyes at the scene.

“Nice one,” he drawls, sarcasm thick in his tone as he leaves Spock in favor of chasing after Nyota. Kirk has to jog to catch her, just managing to snag her attention before she disappears out of the building and around a corner.

“Uhura! Nyota, wait,” he calls.

Nyota stops and turns around to hover uncertainly at the curb. It’ll be okay, Kirk reasons, he knows he can handle this. Spock might have all the tact of a wooden plank, but Kirk does know how to be diplomatic, and he’s usually very, very convincing.

“Give me a minute to explain,” Kirk begs. “It's your cover. He’s an architect designing a resort for heroes of the Soviet Union near the Black Sea. The Russian Minister of Culture has a weakness for classical architecture and he’s sending your man there to Rome to study. The Minister has also managed to secure a visa for his fiancée. And naturally, you’d introduce him to your beloved Uncle Rudi—who we very much need to speak with in order to look for any leads to the whereabouts of your father,” Kirk reminds her gently.

Nyota isn’t an agent like Kirk or Spock, and the American has to remember that as brave as Nyota appears, all of this has got to be difficult to handle. The woman narrows her eyes at Kirk’s explanation, but doesn’t leave, so the agent counts his hurried explanation as a tentative success.

“What about you? What’s your cover?”

“I’ll be Sam Jameson, an antiques dealer, specializing in Greek and Roman sculpture. The Singh family happen to have one of the finest collections in the world,” Kirk adds dreamily. He’d love to swipe a few pieces from the Singh vault, but perhaps it will have to wait for another trip to Rome, when the potential for atomic fallout isn’t currently on the cusp of reality.

“I’ll pose as a high class thief—which isn’t too far from the truth, really— and convince the Singhs that they’re in need of my… services. To expand their collection. From there, I’ll work on getting any information out of them that I can, and I might even get the chance to see what’s in their private vaults. If I had a nuclear missile, that’s where I’d hide it,” Kirk jokes weakly.

Nyota sighs and shakes her head, lips pressed into a tight line.

“Spock is handsome, Kirk. But you’re asking too much of me.”

“You’ll do fine,” Kirk cajoles, unwilling to either agree or disagree verbally as he claps Nyota gently on the arm to lead her back inside. She follows reluctantly, and Kirk doesn’t blame her. He can’t imagine having to play pretend fiancée to the uptight, closed off Russian agent inside, as impressive and attractive as he is. It’s clear Spock doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body, and the guy also has a definite stick up his ass.

—————

The sound of hard heeled shoes clicking over the shop’s floor, echoing their trajectory towards Spock, is a welcome conclusion to the discussion that had been taken outside. He admits, there is a wealth of behavioral attributes he could implement for the sake of making this easier on their non-agent partner, many of which lie in the acceptable range between Kirk’s oppressive persona and his own tepid one. While making himself approachable is often the opposite of ideal for his missions, allowing himself to appear concerned for their circumstances could only encourage trust in this case. Trust that they will, inevitably, need.

Spock closes his eyes in an endeavor to focus, wishing, for the first time, that he had ever found cause to engage in what the other agents referred to as ‘water cooler talk.’

“These dresses are all in your size,” Spock announces, missing his attempt at a personable tone by the width of the store. He continues to stare at the rack of clothing still in front of him, thankful his back is turned to his partner, as he schools the annoyance off of his face, not wanting Nyota to believe herself to be the subject of it.

“Excuse me?”

The amused, and distinctly male voice echoes across the space between them, shattering Spock’s resolve that the day can be recovered without loss. There is nothing inherently wrong with Agent Kirk, though Spock could never be forced to admit it. The American’s methods are unimaginable to Spock and, still, they are unarguably effective according to his file. Making friends has never been one of his many specialties, yet Spock understands that the two of them have been a particular brand of misaligned.

Spock wills himself to turn around, fighting the expression of surprise away from his features, and thinks of basic chemistry. Of elements that, regardless of the objective of the scientist involved, cannot be joined without a devastating reaction. Meeting Kirk’s eyes, he wonders what intentions the universe had when creating these calamitous combinations to be drawn to one another.

Kirk, for his part, seems tentatively amused at worst, though Spock has already learned not to trust the landscape of his face. He continues to draw closer, his stride gradually slowing, as he gestures dramatically to his own casually cut suit, as if to emphasize his own decidedly male figure. Spock’s gaze helplessly follows the swooping hand as it flows over the American’s body, remarking the planes of his chest and torso that his well tailored jacket do little to disguise. Though Spock agrees that Kirk’s appearance would not be wholly flattered by anything he has picked out with Nyota in mind, he cannot help but think to counter that the offence clearly taken is unnecessary. There is truth in the fact that Kirk has something to gain by wearing less.

Only by sheer force of will, and aided by a stone of embarrassment dropping into the pit of his stomach, Spock orders his head to turn away, refusing to be caught staring, instead flipping through the hanging garments as if reassessing what he has already chosen. There is nothing to be gained from the act other than the introduction of self doubt, though when he glances over his shoulder at Kirk, the man seems oddly uninterested.

“Where is Miss Uhura?” Spock diverts, his voice too tightly controlled for the casualness that would be ideal. He is not used to this new stress of dealing with partnerships, he assures himself, but he has adapted to more demanding circumstances. The thought feels false even as it forms.

“I sent her into the changing room. Found a killer little red dress on our way back in,” Kirk explains, leaning an arm casually against Spock’s clothing rack. Spock is under no impression that the action serves any purpose other than to place Kirk back in the Russian’s line of sight. The breath he takes is far too loud to be subtle and the cringe that threatens to follow is no more reassuring to the state of himself. Spock reminds himself, silently, that the man beside him is a menace by profession, and he ought not to allow himself to be drafted into the chaos. No matter how much a small part of him calls for him to lean into it.

“Thanks for scaring her off by the way. Would’ve been a real doozy to try and explain that to our handlers,” Kirk continues, perhaps erroneously confusing Spock’s silence for interest in his opinions. “Good thing I was here, though. I appreciate you getting all of this together while I was out. Shows you were already confident enough in me as a partner, at least subconsciously, that you knew I’d bring her back... Correct your little mishap.”

Kirk smoothes his hand over one of the dresses that Spock has gathered as he speaks, choosing the one furthest from him in order to reach across the expanse of Spock’s chest, complete with a look of innocence that couldn’t be more damning considering the wearer. Spock refuses to move, aware that the game they’re playing mocks too closely to the childish one of ‘chicken,’ and yet he holds his ground, glaring, as Kirk’s feigned naivety morphs into a conspiratorial wink.

“I could always take over from here, you know. You can go home and get some rest while we shop,” the American proposes more casually, when Spock still refuses to speak until he is given something worthwhile to respond to.

However, when Kirk drops his head to stare at him through the fan of his exaggerated eyelashes, Spock seems unable to stop the snort that the look seems to summon. Kirk smiles broadly at the small victory, which only serves to amplify Spock’s annoyance. It has been too long since someone was able to work a crack into his stoic resolve, and even longer since anyone had been foolish enough to desire to, all culminating in a dangerous match. He finds himself unable to back down, despite logic clearly dictating that the circumstances do not warrant the energy being demanded.

“A Soviet architect traveling to Rome would never dress his woman in the clothing you have tried to put her in,” Spock tries, blatantly ignoring Kirk’s endeavors at harassing him into leaving. The American surely believes himself to be some sort of charming, and it's Spock’s sole intention to direct the man’s attention back to work.

Aggravation works its way into the lines of Kirk’s movements as he hastily flicks through the rest of Spock’s selections, giving them far more attention than the far dress he had pretended to examine so thoroughly. Spock continues to hold his ground despite the vague possibility that the American has finally decided to give their mission his actual focus, telling himself that to remove himself now would still be encouragement. He cannot say, in his current state, the true validity of the statement. A part of him remains entirely too concerned with the other agent not getting the better of him, all while being entirely unaware of what the better of him would be.

“You’re trying to dress her like someone on your side of the Curtain _thinks_ someone dresses behind the Iron Curtain,” Kirk explains as he finishes perusing Spock’s choices, thankfully shifting his focus to the task at hand instead of wasting their time teasing Spock, at least for the time being.

“She _is_ from behind the Iron Curtain,” Spock returns, aware he is frowning, assuming Kirk would prefer a much more manipulative, and far more exhausting, approach to constructing Nyota’s cover. “She will be more comfortable in the items I have picked,” Spock reasons, risking a look at Kirk in hopes that the man’s facial expression might help guide Spock in interpreting the American’s less logical outlook.

“Yeah, she’s from behind the Wall, but that doesn’t mean she wants to bring it with her. This is a covert mission, Spock. To Rome. The fashion capital of the world. She’s gonna want to blend in. And so are you, for that matter. I know what I’m doing, so let me take charge on this. It’s not my first trip out to sea.”

“Nor is it mine, _Captain_,” Spock returns dryly, finding himself entirely too satisfied at watching Kirk gape at the nickname.

Spock has already decided that his own point of view is the proper way to navigate the creation of a convincing alias for Nyota. If she is not comfortable in her clothing, and must fight against being overly aware of it, she will be even less convincing as she attempts to pretend to be someone else. Wearing something that looks the part is only a small portion of the role these garments will play. If Kirk was less rash of an agent, and capable of absorbing the larger picture, they would not be having this debate.

“We need two purses, please,” Spock explains to a summoned employee, as if Kirk hadn’t voiced his previous opinion that Spock surrender control of this part of the mission. “And an everyday clutch,” he continues, “as well as that belt.”

The attendant scurries to gather Spock’s requested items, and Spock watches as Kirk’s eyes fall on the belt in question, a look of mild horror on his expressive face that leaves Spock feeling equal parts puzzled and offended.

“That won’t match,” Kirk protests, an actual scowl on his face. How Spock’s choices could be so distasteful to the American, Spock is unsure, yet he finds his own ire rising in response to finding that the other agent is so clearly averse to them.

“It doesn’t have to _match_,” Spock finds himself snapping, turning suddenly on his heel to bring their faces together, unaware that Kirk had moved so much closer, cursing himself for allowing his partner to frustrate him to the point of his senses dulling. He cannot remember the last time someone had shifted closer without Spock knowing the exact centimeters they’d claimed. He does not appreciate the feeling.

Kirk sucks in a breath, as Spock fights the urge to reel back, if only to salvage his pride after the ridiculous sound of surprise he had allowed himself to make. Kirk’s face is so near to Spock’s that he is able to make out the faint flecks of green in the man’s eyes, could number his eyelashes, should be be in possession of the will or the time to do so.

Adrenaline floods his veins in preparation for another fight as he watches Kirk’s eyes narrow, Spock’s fingers curling into fists on their own accord. Even now, in the midst of evidence, Spock will not entertain the idea that he could ever be properly agitated over something so illogical as womens’ clothing. Further proof that Agent Kirk has a very specialized skill set when it comes to drawing unwanted reactions out of Spock.

When Kirk parts his lips, Spock is instantly aware of it, his eyes having fallen to the other man’s mouth at some point in the silence. His gaze shifts back up, instantly, at the realization, only to find that Kirk’s eyes have gone blurry with proximity. It is then, unforgivably delayed, Spock becomes aware that Kirk is, he believes, still leaning in. There is no other sound conclusion to come to, other than that Kirk is at least attempting to pretend that he has intentions to kiss him, despite the shocking nature of the thought. Spock is not here to be mocked. He has spent his life ensuring that he will not become the butt of a simpleton’s jokes, and even as he cannot seem to make himself move, he also assures himself that Kirk will not be the one laughing should he test him like this.

Before Kirk is given the time to decide whether he would rather call Spock’s bluff or his own, Nyota strolls out of the dressing room, and Kirk springs away from Spock like a frightened cat. Spock’s own flinch back isn’t much more dignified, but his thoughts are too occupied to worry about his own response, too busy attempting to ignore the rush of blood in his ears and the traitorous part of him that desires to know if the flush in Kirk’s cheeks is a blush of desire, rather than one of anger.

Nyota clacks over to them in a fresh pair of heels, ignoring the tension between the two men who have jumped apart like children caught stealing cookies by their mother.

“Have you seen the price of this handbag? It costs more than my car,” she calls cheerfully, lifting the accessory and making purposeful eye contact with Spock. Attention diverted away from Kirk, Spock meets Nyota’s gaze, grateful for the new distraction, despite the way he feels as if she is sizing him up.

“You may get back to your ship, Captain. I will see you in Rome,” Spock declares, his voice an icy monotone even to his own ears. He cannot worry about things such as rudeness right now, not when Kirk seems dangerously aware of exactly where Spock’s most susceptible triggers are arranged, and he is not too proud to know when his limits have been reached. Spock can hear his heart beating loudly in his own ears as he attempts to figure out where Kirk may have stumbled upon this information about him, the KGB barely tolerating the existence of Spock’s sexuality, not daring to make a report of it lest it be seen as condonement. He knows that the means of Kirk’s awareness do not truly matter and that the discussion of such things does not, and will not, have justification. Spock will ensure it.

For a brief moment, Nyota’s gaze shifts from Spock to Kirk, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees the American give her a terse nod.

“See you in Rome, Vulcan,” Kirk murmurs, barely audible from where he stands only a few feet away, and then the man is gone.

Spock only just manages to hold back his sigh of relief, too grateful for the American’s absence to ponder the motives for his sudden surrender and subsequent retreat.

Despite any untoward feelings Spock may possess, which at this point he refuses to examine, tucking them away for later introspection instead, he and Kirk are supposed to be teammates. They will have to work together. Spock must learn quickly not to allow Kirk’s unique presence rattle him and break down his control, or they will have much larger issues at hand. No matter how good the other agent is at knowing exactly where to press for maximum effect.

For now, Spock is glad for the opportunity to spend some time alone with his other teammate. While he is not particularly looking forward to fulfilling his role as the woman’s fiancé, he already understands that Nyota will be a more level and tolerable companion than Kirk--one who does not purposefully push Spock’s buttons in an attempt to draw out an emotional response.

After taking a moment to center himself and letting out a deep but silent breath, Spock turns to Nyota to examine her current attire. The dress Kirk had selected is flattering on her frame, and the color is particularly eye catching against her dark skin, yet the cut remains practical.

“This dress is not as bad as the others,” Spock is forced to concede, not too proud to do so, at least now that Kirk is no longer here to hear it. “I believe it will be… adequate, for the mission. However, it is still missing something important.”

Spock steps close to hold out his closed fist over Nyota’s trustingly open hand and drops a heavy ring onto her palm.

“Now we are engaged. I believe that congratulations are appropriate,” he states dryly, unable to summon a more socially suitable level of excitement.

Nyota gives Spock a flat look and slips the fake engagement ring onto its proper place on her left hand with a halfhearted “hooray” that leaves Spock glad that Kirk is not there to continue mocking him.


	3. Mission: Rome

“Sam Jameson. Checking in.”

The woman attending the hotel’s reception desk blushes prettily at Kirk’s charming smile and searches for his reservation in the logs. After jotting down something down, she turns to select a key and pass it to Kirk.

“Welcome to Rome, Mister Jameson,” she replies, offering a tentative, coy smile in return. Kirk half considers asking the woman when her shift ends, watching appreciatively as she tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear.

“Thank you,” Kirk returns, a flirtatious comment dying on his lips when his quick, habitual scan of the room yields something more worthy of his attention. There are two men seated in the lobby, bent close together over their drinks. There’s nothing out of place about them, save for the bad feeling Kirk gets in his gut. The two seem to come to an agreement, too far away for Kirk to make out their words before rising to leave. They stalk out of the lobby and into the street, where Spock and Nyota had disappeared only a moment ago after checking in to their own room. Kirk bites the inside of his cheek and turns back around to the waiting attendant.

“I have a quick errand to run. Could you have my bag taken to my room, please?”

Kirk quietly mourns for his plans to explore the city or chat up beautiful receptionists, now that something actually important to the mission has come up.

“Of course,” the woman smiles, calling for a bellhop as Kirk turns on his heel and hurries after the men. Spock might be the Russians’ idea of an ideal agent, but Kirk is willing to bet he’s been too distressed attempting to keep Nyota placated to notice something like what Kirk has just witnessed in the lobby. The American has his work cut out for him.

—————

“Where are we going?”

“The same place every architect goes when visiting Rome, Miss Uhura,” Spock answers dryly, wandering with Nyota’s arm tucked neatly into the crook of his elbow. It is a balmy summer evening, and the famous Spanish Steps are littered with local visitors and tourists alike, all enjoying the fair weather. Spock has done his research, and he has chosen this location as the primary one to target if he is to uphold his current alias. It is also a considerably romantic location, known to attract couples. Therefore, it fulfills both the requirement of a place of relevance to Spock’s supposed personal interests as an architect, and that of his responsibilities as a man in a relationship.

“Alright, Mister Architect. You seem like the type to do your homework. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about the steps?” Nyota proposes, running her thumb over the luxurious material of Spock’s dark suit. Spock is made slightly uncomfortable by the touch, and he does not lean into it, despite the fact that he and Nyota are meant to appear as if they are engaged.

Rather than encourage Nyota’s flirting, Spock presses his lips together and nods, leading her over to the elegant fountain at the center of the city square. The sound of running water is soothing, but it also assists in camouflaging their speech, should he or Nyota need to speak of anything related to their mission while amidst the public. From this location, Spock also has an excellent view of both the famed steps, and any of the alleys from which potential enemies might emerge. Satisfied with his defensible location, Spock continues to observe the square as he speaks.

“The Spanish Steps were constructed in 1732, credited to two Italian architects. However, it—”

“Evening, comrade,” a cheerful voice drawls, nearly making Spock flinch when Kirk appears at his side as if out of thin air, seated on a puttering vespa scooter. The suddenness of the agent’s presence forces Spock to blink, slowly, twice before his brain accepts the information that his eyes are relaying. The wry smile on Kirk’s face makes Spock clench his teeth together, once he confirms that he is, in fact, not hallucinating.

Nyota’s face has lit up with Kirk’s sudden appearance, clearly more pleased at the sight of his partner than she has been all night while in Spock’s presence. A small sense of indignancy threatens to take hold, at the obvious betrayal of fancy from his presumed fiancée, but it seems to have trouble finding its grip. Spock, taking in the muscular straddling thighs, windswept blonde hair, and the wideset smile that reaches his eyes even in the dim lighting — Spock cannot honestly say he would not prefer Kirk’s company as well, if he were a bright young woman.

When Kirk winks at him, a sensation he tells himself is merely irritation simmers dangerously close to the surface of his psyche.

“You are not supposed to be here. You cannot make contact in public,” Spock hisses pointedly, Kirk’s casually flirtations attitude hitting a nerve. He snaps his jaw shut with an audible click, looking away from Kirk and his entertained expression. If they are being watched, Spock does not want them to appear is if they know each other, or that they are speaking at all.

Kirk hums noncommittally and observes the sculpture at the center of the fountain before them.

“You’re being followed,” he warns, and Spock’s frustration spikes. If this is what Kirk has risked their identities to share with him, the American has wasted their time.

“I am aware. Two men from the hotel lobby, aged mid-thirties. One in a brown suit, the other in a leather jacket. You need to leave. Now, before they notice,” Spock grinds out, risking a sidelong glance at Kirk to fix him with a potent glare. Kirk leans back in his seat on the scooter to stretch his arms behind his head, ignoring the unspoken threat and bulldozing onward. The gesture pulls at the finely tailored lines of his suit jacket, tight over his shoulders and chest as the fabric clings and outlines the gentle curve of the muscles beneath it.

“They changed course when you turned down the steps, so I imagine they’ll be waiting ahead for you.”

Spock diverts his eyes, fixating on the dancing of light across the surface of the water instead of Agent Kirk. He has been aware of the mens’ location since they had begun to follow him, and therefore, Kirk’s additional information is not a surprise. Instead, they are a redundant inconvenience, and a distraction fit to rival the man himself.

“I will handle them,” Spock vows.

“Handle? Just to avoid any confusion, by ‘handle,’ you do mean, give them your wallet and act scared, right?” Kirk presses, fixing his shockingly blue eyes on Spock’s and holding his gaze. Spock scowls and gives no answer, unwilling to openly contradict the agent when he realizes the man’s words have merit, though it does not make Spock like them any more than he had originally.

Kirk sighs and nods to politely Nyota, apparently giving up on his attempts to convince Spock and aiming for the more susceptible target instead.

“You’re being tested,” he tells her. “Someone is trying to make sure your fiancé is really an architect and not someone who is trained to fight. A KGB agent, for example.”

“As I said, you are not needed here,” Spock contributes flatly.

“I think you should do as he says,” Nyota adds, earning a grin from Kirk and a more muted, scandalized look from Spock. Seemingly content with the fact that he has won over Nyota and knowing that Spock will not listen to anything else the American has to say, Kirk starts up his scooter, and once more seeks out eye contact with Spock. There is a dangerously mirthful glint in his impossibly bright eyes that draws out an unknown emotion in Spock’s chest. He is dazed, for a brief moment, by the open glee in the American’s expression, and is unprepared for what comes next.

“Remember, take it like a pussy,” Kirk instructs cheerfully, making Spock bristle.

“This is not the Russian way,” he spits, flushing at Kirk’s resultant laugh and unable to tear his eyes away from the man’s mouth for just a moment too long.

Forcing himself to disengage, Spock curls his arm more securely around Nyota’s and turns to abruptly lead her away. A moment passes, and the high rumble of Kirk’s scooter fades out, alerting Spock to the fact that he has finally driven away. Spock is left with his own stormy thoughts and an uncharacteristically quiet Nyota beside him.

Knowing that the altercation Kirk had warned him of is inevitable, Spock attempts to push the thoughts of the other agent from his mind as he leads Nyota to an older part of the town. The men that have been trailing them had disappeared near the crumbling ruins of a Roman temple, most likely anticipating that the ancient remains would be Spock’s next location of choice, were he truly an architect visiting the culturally relevant sites. Fully intending to meet them there and fulfill their expectations so as to avoid any doubt as to his or Nyota’s identity, Spock does not delay.

As they wander among what remains of the pale, gleaming columns, Spock’s jaw tightens even as his body remains loose in preparation to strike. The men from the lobby are nearby, leaning against the dilapidated architecture with faux nonchalance. Spock leads Nyota past them without trouble, and wonders for a moment if Kirk’s intuition of an impending test had been a false premonition.

“Nice shoes,” one of the men calls in the thick, oily voice of a heavy smoker. Spock closes his eyes in a brief moment of mourning and resolves himself to the altercation that lies ahead. Despite his profession, Spock does not revel in violence, nor does he seek it out. How Kirk, with his sharp words and expressive features, seems uniquely able to draw out Spock’s latent urges to engage in illogical arguments and to settle matters of disagreement with physical aggression, he cannot begin to fathom. The American man is the outlier, in Spock’s carefully ordered world.

“Thank you,” Spock replies reflexively, dismissing thoughts of Kirk as he turns his attention to the potentially dangerous situation at hand. He continues along as if nothing has happened while the man hops down from a fallen column and adjusts his leather jacket around his waist. Immediately, Spock’s trained eye tags the motion as an attempt to conceal a weapon, which is most likely a small hand gun. He remains calm.

“Perhaps you will give them to me,” the man in the leather jacket suggests, following after Spock and Nyota at a leisurely pace. Nyota’s grip on Spock’s forearm tightens to the point where Spock begins to worry about the flow of blood to his hand and wrist.

“I believe that you will find your own feet to be several sizes too small,” Spock replies levelly, watching as the second goon moves from his resting place in the ruins to stand with his counterpart.

“Then give me some money for coffee,” the second man suggests, cracking his knuckles threateningly.

“Dearest…” Nyota cuts in, clinging to Spock now in a way that the agent finds particularly restrictive, although the gesture is not out of place for an engaged couple. “Give the gentlemen something for coffee.”

Eyes blazing, Spock stares the new man down before reaching for his wallet and extracting a crisp bill. The man in the leather jacket steps closer and yanks both the wallet and the bill from Spock’s hands. Spock seethes, but remembers Kirk’s advice, and says nothing.

“Nice watch…” the second man hums, having noticed the accessory glinting in the light when Spock raised his arms to remove the money. The agent grows immediately rigid, and does not move. Nyota begins to shake at his side.

“Darling. Give him the watch,” she presses, voice surprisingly even despite her quaking.

“And the ring,” the man in the leather jacket adds greedily. Before Spock can protest, Nyota slips the band from her finger and hands it to the thief. Spock wears a sincerely offended expression at how quickly his not-fiancée has given the jewelry up.

“Give me the watch,” the goon presses, and Spock’s hands ball into fists to hide the twitch of his fingers as waves of anger wash over him, close to the breaking point.

Nyota watches him pleadingly, and Spock feels an inexplicable pang of something like guilt that is just enough to cut through the fury and anguish bombarding his brain, clashing against the mental shields of calm he attempts to keep up. He is numb as his fingers undo the clasp of the watch, a last memento from his father. Spock hands the watch to the man in front of him with wooden motions. The thug snatches the watch from Spock’s grip and spits in his face, laughing.

It takes no thought for Spock’s fist to immediately fly out, making clean, crisp contact with the man’s throat, just under his jaw. The crunch of his broken larynx is accompanied by a wet gasp, and Spock is motionless as the goon crumples. The man in the leather jacket darts forward, whipping out the gun whose existence Spock had hypothesized earlier. The Russian is breathing hard as he watches the man skirt around them to lift his fallen comrade, slipping the limp man’s arm over his shoulder to drag him away into the shadows. Spock allows them to go, despite the fury inside of himself.

The goon keeps his gun pointed at Spock until he is completely out of sight, finally disappearing around a corner with his injured friend. Spock’s rising embarrassment over allowing his emotions to win, and a powerful sensation of loss berate him as he continues in his attempts to calm himself. Nevertheless, his wrist remains too light.

To make matters infinitely worse, Kirk chooses this moment to stroll into the alley in his crisp navy suit, amused crinkles at the corners of his eyes as his shoes click over the cobblestones.

“Not very good at this whole subtlety thing, are you, Vulcan?” Kirk calls, one hand tucked into the pocket of his slacks, thumb poking out near the top.

“That man stole my father’s watch,” Spock divulges flatly, shoulders tense as Kirk comes to stand before him. The American is the embodiment of ease, the lines of his body loose and his expression infuriatingly open in its levity.

“Aren’t you supposed to be a Russian architect?” Kirk asks, ignoring Spock’s obvious statement.

“Yes. However, a Russian architect would have fought. A Russian agent would have killed them both. Therefore, it is of no consequence, unless you continue to question my actions,” Spock growls, hands shaking.

Kirk’s eyes widen and he rocks back on his heels amusedly, plush lips curled into a lopsided smile.

“Wow, so you’ve actually thought your outburst through? They told me you were bright, but…”

“Would you like to finish what we started?” Spock offers darkly, fingers itching to close around Kirk’s throat as the strain of maintaining his control becomes smothering.

Kirk’s handsome face split into a sneer as the temperature between them seems to rise several degrees.

“Can it, Vulcan—“

“Don’t,” Nyota barks, coming to stand between the two agents and separate them. “You two are supposed to be looking after me, so why am I the one playing mother?”

Both agents are shamed into a moment of silence, and share a look that reads of a reluctant truce, before fixing their eyes on Nyota once more.

“You two are ridiculous, with all of this bickering. Either you get over yourselves and start to look like you know what you’re doing, or you make up, or—or you come to some sort of understanding and figure out how to play nice. The banter is cute, truly, but unless I have read the mission files incorrectly, we are supposed to be a united front. A team. All of us. So. Get it together. Otherwise, I’m out of here,” she threatens, turning to pace towards the mouth of the alley. Kirk blinks as he watches Nyota go, whistling through his teeth.

The tension between them disarmed for the moment, Spock cannot help but agree with Kirk’s sentiment. Nyota is likely reasonably frightened and upset about the mugging incident, although he had not been expecting her to snap at them so. It is admirable, Spock decides, that Nyota has the bravery to threaten two of the world’s most dangerous secret agents as she instructs them on how to do their own jobs. He wonders, quietly, if she could be right. What benefits a simple conversation between the two of them could grant. It seems far fetched, the beginning of a story normally dictating its ending, no matter what some may claim. Yet still, he finds himself waiting for Kirk to offer, unwilling to be made a fool of himself.

“You’re a lucky man, Spock,” Kirk murmurs, dry amusement on his features as he gestures for Spock to lead the way out of the alley. Spock frowns and makes no move to step forward, oddly reluctant to leave. In the silence, Kirk’s soft chuckle echoes over the ruins, an agreeable sound, if Spock allows himself to be honest. He is still trying to think of something to say, attempting to ignore the odd feeling the unsummoned small smile on his face, when a warm, gentle hand finds its place at the small of Spock’s back, guiding him forward.

Unwittingly, Spock finds himself leaning into the touch and moving with Kirk, resolve crumbling, until his thoughts catch up to his body and he realizes what he is doing. Kirk is not Spock’s friend, he strangely has to remind himself, as he is hardly even Spock’s teammate. This measure of intimacy is unacceptable, and Spock does not need to be consoled.

Pulling away away abruptly, Spock quickens his pace to remove himself from Kirk’s reach. The other man does not comment, though a brief wounded expression flickers over his face, causing a vicious sense of satisfaction to rise up in Spock’s chest, proof that he is not the only one affected.

Nyota is waiting for them at the mouth of the alley, with her arms crossed before her. In tacit agreement, the three of them walk back to the hotel in tired silence. Spock makes no mention of the dangerous potential for compromised identities this time, when Kirk keeps astride with them, aware that if he speaks up, he will be forced into another long engagement with Kirk. Spock does not believe he has the strength for it, currently.

When Kirk eventually excuses himself from the group two blocks away from the hotel so that they will not all enter together, Spock does not bid him farewell, and silently allows Nyota to lead the way back to their suite.

Once they have reached their rooms, Nyota settles near the telephone, looking hesitant. Spock sheds his suit jacket and hangs it neatly on the rack by the door. He keeps any negative comments to himself when he overhears Nyota order a bottle of gin from room service.

Spock settles down in the suite’s overstuffed armchair, fingers steepled together as he loses himself in thought. Ever since they had returned to the hotel, Spock has been distracted. It has been a struggle to ignore the lingering thoughts of irritation, and the plaguing intrigue that surround each interaction he has with Kirk. The mystery of his own response to the comforting weight of the Kirk’s hand leaves Spock further puzzled. He cannot recall the last time that he had welcomed touch, and certainly never by one he could still call, essentially, a stranger. Perhaps he was simply still reeling from the loss of his father’s watch, leaving him unsettlingly unlike himself. It had been a gift from Spock’s mother to his father, and Spock’s father had gifted it to him before his exile to Siberia. It was a reasonable thing, to be affected by its loss.

However, as there was nothing Spock could do to broker its recovery, whereas Kirk was guaranteed to return to Spock sooner rather than later, the American had obviously become the more logically justifiable center of Spock’s focus, he reasons.

Indeed, Kirk was a fool for risking their cover just to tell Spock about their tail earlier in the evening. Though, regardless of any extant irritation, Spock is forced to concede that if his partner had not made the suggestion to act fearful of the men, things would have gone quite differently tonight. It is likely he and Nyota would not have made it back to the hotel, if Spock had not been advised in caution. Nevertheless, that by no means demands that Spock be grateful for Kirk’s interference. The man was wildly exasperating, and Spock has yet to discover a way to keep his emotions resolved in the presence of the other agent.

Spock sighs and sits up from where he has been nestled against the backrest of the comfortable armchair. The hotel suite is fairly luxurious, and Spock could almost compliment Kirk on his choice of establishments if it were not for his objections to the man on principle.

It is proof, Spock believes, that Kirk’s vapidity is nothing more than a clever smoke screen — a misdirection that wears as an impressive disguise, hiding the inner mechanics of a certainly dynamic mind, able to play so many parts at once. Anything could be hiding under Kirk’s veneer of arrogance, and Spock has no doubts that whatever else you could call him, he is a fascinating man. Though why anyone would hide such brilliance and skill under such a distasteful projection is a mystery to Spock and he wants, inexplicably, to demand the removal of the false persona. If only to fulfill his own desire to see what lies beneath it.

The falseness has already began to infuriate him.

Nyota’s drink finally arrives, stirring Spock from his inner frustrations, but before the woman can pour herself a glass, the telephone rings.

Spock watches with interest as Nyota answers, making an exaggerated face to catch his attention as she audibly greets her Uncle Rudi, as if the agent would not be listening anyway. Nyota then visibly attempts to relax as she speaks to her uncle, making light conversation and discussing her alleged vacation time in Rome with her new fiancé. Eventually, Nyota begins to speak less as her uncle reciprocates in the conversation, and Spock is forced to wait for the telephone call to terminate so that she can fill him in on the informational gaps. After nearly an hour of conversation, Nyota finally hangs up the phone, slumping in her chair.

“We have our in,” Nyota declares, the strain she had just removed from her voice working its way back into it. “There’s a party tomorrow to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of Singh Shipping. Uncle Rudi has invited us. We’ll be expected to attend. Undercover, of course. It will be the perfect opportunity for me to introduce you as my fiancé, and we can try to find out what Uncle Rudi knows about my father.”

Nyota wrinkles her nose and glances at the wall, in the direction Kirk is staying down the hall. “Kirk has to come too, but we still can’t be seen with him. He’s supposed to be working on the hosts, right? Offering to steal art for them?”

Spock nods and tries not to feel too bothered by the fact that they have so little, relatively, to structure their mission around. As if sensing Spock’s disquiet, Nyota gathers the tray with the gin and ice bucket before rising to approach him, moving slowly as if encountering a wild animal.

“Drink?” Nyota asks, settling on the couch adjacent to Spock and interrupting his thoughts once more.

“No. Thank you,” Spock replies tonelessly, hunched over the small wooden chessboard he set he has set up on the coffee table. Nyota has refused to play with him, and Spock would ask Kirk if only to see the barest glimpse of how the man’s mind worked, yet he finds himself unwilling. Though whether he is more concerned with being made a fool out of by rejection or by loss, he refuses to think on. Either way, Spock is therefore left with no choice but to play a solitary game against himself. He moves a rook and settles back once more into his chair. Nyota pays him no mind, filling a tumbler with far too much gin, no ice, and downing the liquid with nauseating speed.

“Would you like a bigger glass?” Spock asks wryly, blinking in bewilderment as she immediately proceeds to pour herself a second drink. Nyota’s smile is coy and fierce, and it’s clear she’s already deciphered Spock’s unique brand of dry humor.

Nyota sets the significantly depleted bottle down on the coffee table, rattling Spock’s chess pieces.

“I will finish this bottle, Mister Spock. The only question is, are you going to help me or not?”

“No," Spock repeats, watching Nyota drink with a morbid sort of fascination. “Thank you.”

Nyota shrugs noncommittally and wanders over to the lacquered wardrobe in the bedroom, where the radio sits. The sound of knobs being twisted and buttons tapped ineffectually reach Spock’s ears, and he allows himself a small smile.

Spock had discreetly disassembled the radio’s essential components earlier, when Nyota was in the shower. He had anticipated the fact that Nyota might wish to listen to music at some point during their stay, and had made an executive decision. Spock does not concentrate well with music in the background of his thoughts, and the particularly trying nature of a team mission dictates that Spock’s mind be functioning at its highest capacity. Such precautionary measures were therefore necessary.

There is a moment of audible fiddling and a few unusual clicks that leave Nyota cursing. Spock knows that she will not stop to consider the malfunction is his fault, and relaxes as he stares down at his chessboard, straightening a pawn.

Sudden static bursts into the room, followed by an unearthly screech that nearly startles Spock out of his chair. Nyota curses audibly again and smacks at the buttons before loud, upbeat music fills the suite. Spock shuts his eyes in defeated exasperation, drawing in a deep breath to center himself.

Spock now realizes that he had too easily dismissed Nyota’s expertise as an engineer and assumed that, upon finding the malfunctioning radio, there would be no attempts to recover it. Spock had, evidently, made a mistake.

The soft sound of Nyota humming along to the music rises above the din as she lowers the volume to a more reasonable level, and Spock tightens his hands on the arms of his chair, aware of Nyota’s eyes on the back of his neck. It is clear that the woman has some sort of ulterior motive, and Spock is beginning to put together the pieces. Alcohol first, now music, along with the subtle, appraising looks Nyota has been wearing so frequently can only mean one thing. Spock suddenly feels too warm under his pressed collar.

“Nyota… This is not a good idea,” Spock declares evenly, attempting to be patient and hoping that he will not have to be. Nyota is intelligent, brave, and unusually stalwart, as she proves even now. Spock is slowly beginning to appreciate her company. However, this is too much. The agent risks a glance over his shoulder to see Nyota dancing in the open room, a coquettish smile on her lips. He immediately stiffens.

“I am going to bed. Please turn this off,” Spock rises to walk past Nyota on his way to the bathroom to change. If they are indeed to attend the Singh Shipping company’s 50th anniversary celebration tomorrow, he will need his rest. It is as good of an excuse as he should require.

“No, Spock, come on. It’s no fun dancing by yourself. I need a partner,” Nyota calls, now singing along with the tune on the radio and swaying into Spock’s path to block him, one hand reaching out to rest at his hip. Spock senses himself growing more rigid. Anxiety wins over anger inside of him, with the odd sensation that he has become suddenly ill.

“No. I... cannot.”

Spock attempts to keep his expression neutral, but his voice quavers. Nyota pauses at his tone, hesitating for a moment as she studies his features. Understanding seems to dawn on her slowly, and she offers Spock a sad smile.

“‘No’ as in you can’t dance? Or I’m not the right partner?”

Spock’s swallow is thick as he looks down at Nyota, surprisingly vulnerable, as if his heart and mind have been coaxed open by her gaze. It is a long time before he speaks.

“Perhaps we shall call it both.”

Nyota fixes him with a look that is all too knowing, and Spock struggles to hold his expression to neutral, even as he feels his shoulders pull in defensively. He knows he must look ridiculous, as he is a powerful man, most likely failing to make himself appear small. Nyota’s shake of her head is only confirmation of Spock’s hypothesis.

Despite Spock’s warnings and protests, Nyota appears to make a decision, determination and warmth in her eyes. She does not speak as she presses forward, taking Spock’s hand in her own and resuming the gentle sway of her hips in time with the music.

“It’s alright, Spock. I understand,” Nyota assures, and for some unfathomable reason, Spock believes that she truly does. She touches him differently now, her flirtatious expression gone. Spock unsticks his feet from the floor and moves.

It is one of the most uncomfortable moments of Spock’s life, as he is half-lead, half-dragged around the hotel suite. But Nyota is smiling at him and laughing not unkindly at his rigid movements. For a moment, the Russian is struck by the innocence of Nyota’s features, the youthfulness of her movements.

Spock himself is not old, not by any means. But Nyota is young and just as quick to smile as she is to scowl, or step into the path of danger head-on. She has grown up in a war-torn nation, working a man’s job for what is likely not enough pay for the caliber of her abilities. She deserves to be happy, and Spock’s compliance can contribute to that, in some small way.

With this realization, Spock still does not dance, but does allow Nyota to spin him around without so much protest. They seem to have finally come to an unsteady sort of understanding after the past few days, built on mutual respect and tentative feelings of fondness, culminating now in this moment of acceptance and trust. Perhaps what Spock finds now is a developing friendship, or would be, if their lives were anything but what they were. There is no room for friendship in the field, certainly not for a KGB spy and a German woman on an expedition to prevent the end of the world.

When they eventually go to sleep in their separate beds, Spock settles down and wonders how he has found himself in such a ridiculous mission with such absurd partners. Spock very pointedly does not think about Kirk, and the fact that the irksome man is beginning to wiggle his way under Spock’s skin from a very different angle than Nyota has. Spock also very pointedly tries not to think about the fact that he does not mind, intrigued by the idea that he may someday soon be granted a glimpse of the mind behind the mask.

—————

The tinny shrill of the alarm is an assault on Kirk’s senses as it pulls him into consciousness, morning light streaming into his eyes. The agent groans and reaches out to bat blindly at the clock on his bedside table and winces when he accidentally knocks it to the floor instead. The ringing doesn’t stop, and Kirk curses as he pulls himself from the warmth of his blanket cocoon. The alarm continues for a moment as Kirk sits in his underwear, legs dangling over the side of the bed while he scrubs a tired hand over his face.

When Kirk finally looks down at the offending electronic, he notices blithely that the back panel has broken off in the fall, and the damn thing is still making noise. Scattered hunks of the clock’s innards rest on the plush carpet between Kirk’s bare feet, along with a hunk of wires and metal that looks suspiciously like a bug. A familiar bug, at that. Blinking the fog from his eyes, Kirk squints down at the thing to get a better look. Sure enough, there’s a tiny, Russian-made listening device next to his toes.

“What are you doing here?” he croons to the little piece of spyware, leaning over to pick it up and rising to wander over to retrieve the scanner in his suitcase. The machine is meant to detect just the kind of thing Kirk now holds in his fingers, and the agent runs the antenna over the bug to confirm his suspicions. The scanner beeps cheerfully, signaling that the microphone is live. Kirk scowls and carries his scanner over to the hotel phone. It whirs quietly, and then, _beep_.

Next, Kirk passes the scanner over the lining of his suit jacket. _Beep_. His shaving kit. _Beep_. The base of the hotel lamp. _Beep_. The cushions of the couch. _Beep_.

Kirk heaves a deep sigh and tugs on a plush, honey-gold bathrobe before stepping into a pair of fuzzy slippers. If Spock has filled his suite up to the ears with bugs, he can’t just let them be. It’s a fair reminder that their countries are still entirely at odds, and that when the end of the mission comes, only one of them can be in possession of the atomic bomb schematics. Kirk and Spock are working together now, but only one of them will win in the end. Considering his own orders, and Russia’s track record of calmly stepping to the same, the other will likely die at their current partner’s hand. Kirk tries not to dwell too deeply on the feeling of wrongness that settles in his gut at the thought of having to dispense of Agent Spock, if it comes to that, and begins a thorough search of the suite for bugs.

About half an hour later, Kirk raps politely on Spock and Nyota’s hotel room door and waits, a thin smile appearing on his handsome features when he sees who has come to answer. Through the sliver between the door and the frame, Spock’s face appears, eyes narrowed and severe brows drawn into the precursor to a frown. Kirk flashes his brightest smile and leans back against the wall opposite Spock’s door.

“Morning, neighbor.”

Spock’s disapproving expression turns into a full fledged frown as he flicks his gaze up and down, taking in Kirk’s current state of undress and lingering just a second too long on the low vee of his robe. Spock makes a small noise of disapproval and steps out into the hall wearing a well tailored suit and an atrocious bowtie, his hair perfectly styled. Kirk smothers the urge to whistle. It’s obvious the Russian agent is prepared to leave for the Singh party that is today’s mission field, and Kirk has caught his partner at the perfect time to make his point. Kirk pushes off from the wall with a swish of his robe, and Spock visibly blanches, one corner of his mouth curled into just the kind of expression Kirk was hoping to elicit from him.

They make a striking contrast, Kirk nearly naked and unabashed, and Spock buttoned up to the gills, looking like he wants to fade into the wallpaper, or maybe rip Kirk’s face off. He hasn’t decided exactly what Spock’s expressions might mean at any given moment, aside from his constant state of disapproval, but Kirk is getting better at reading between the lines.

“What are you doing here? You are not supposed to be here,” Spock hisses. The sharply whispered words echo in the deserted hallway, and Kirk makes an exaggerated, sarcastic show of startling before looking both ways and acting relieved, as if needing to confirm they’re alone, just to get a rise out of Spock. Kirk knows that if someone spots them together, they’ll have to abandon the mission on the pretense that their covers have been blown. It’s a big risk, but Kirk has always enjoyed playing with fire. Besides, the huffy, disapproving responses his recklessness gets out of Spock makes pushing buttons all the more tempting.

“Aw, Spock. You could at least pretend you miss me,” Kirk croons, watching as Spock’s face takes on a frankly delectable color. He allows himself a small moment of victory before fixing Spock with a saccharine smile.

Rather than explaining his presence, Kirk lifts a hand to abruptly tosses a bug at the agent’s chest, startling the murderous expression right off of his angular features. Grinning, Kirk picks up another gadget and lobs it gently at Spock’s sternum, watching the Russian catch it with obvious bewilderment.

“These—are—Russian—made,” Kirk reports calmly, continuing to throw bugs at Spock between words. They don’t even put any wrinkles in his perfectly ironed shirt, and Spock keeps catching them, so it’s not as much fun as Kirk had expected, but the deep creases in Spock’s brow are promising. When it becomes clear Kirk has nothing left to say, Spock rakes his eyes over him as if he’s dissecting a particularly vile specimen and holds up a hand.

“I will return in one moment,” he announces, with an expression that Kirk’s wishful thinking has him identifying as playful, despite the contradictorily hostile tone of Spock’s words. The small moment of suspense makes Kirk giddy, and he nods to show that he is more than willing to wait. The agent disappears back into his suite and reappears a few seconds later with something held loosely in his fist.

“These—are—American—made,” Spock parrots, tossing his own handful of bugs one at a time and bouncing each one off of the same square centimeter of bare skin visible between Kirk’s pecs. Spock uses what is probably considered excessive force in his throws, and does not look like he regrets it one bit.

“They are also very low-tech,” Spock adds with an arched eyebrow.

Kirk’s offended, slightly shocked expression only seems to make Spock look more smug. However, this is the most one-on-one engagement Kirk has managed to drag out of Spock since they met with their handlers in the cafė, and Kirk is thriving on the attention. He can’t complain about Spock’s sour expressions anyway, when they’re practically all the Russian wears.

Kirk also finds himself feeling less upset than he should be that Spock had discovered own bugs so quickly. They've both been caught out, the physical evidence of their distrust for each other held in their hands. At least it seems they're both very similar on that front. Cautious. Good agents. Frankly, Kirk would have been disappointed if Spock hadn't tried to bug him, and he might have been even more disappointed if the Russian had't found the American bugs in his suite. Especially now that the situation has provided him with a golden opportunity to flaunt himself to Spock in nothing but a bathrobe.

Immensely pleased, Kirk quickly narrows his eyes at Spock before allowing his expression to morph into something bright and almost flirtatious. It pulls a wary look out of Spock that Kirk greedily commits to memory.

Without another word, Kirk turns away and begins to stroll down the hall, feeling light on his feet. He needs to start getting dressed, and he’s made his point, but that doesn’t mean he’s done having fun. Just as Kirk is about to turn the corner, he glances over his shoulder and grins fiercely when he catches Spock watching with wide eyes.

“That bowtie doesn’t work with that suit,” Kirk calls, offering a jaunty wave at Spock and blowing him a kiss before he disappears, gone as suddenly as he had come, though not too swiftly to miss Spock’s furious blush and the self-conscious glance down at his attire.


	4. The Singh Affair

The party is in full swing when Kirk arrives in a smart, silver windowpane suit that offsets the blue of his eyes, electrifying them to a greater degree than usual. The details of his outfit are immaculate, from the styling of his hair to the particular fold of his pocket square and the shine of his shoes. For a man like Kirk who understands that the trick to fitting in anywhere is to simply look and act like you belong, appearances are important. The agent adopts the effortless, arrogant poise of old money and smiles disinterestedly at well dressed ladies as he walks past them, making his way onto the Singh estate. Here, under the built guise of importance, he is in heaven. The opportunity to slink around and enjoy expensive finger foods to the tune of espionage are just mandatory elements forced upon him in his career--looking so pretty while doing so is something he considers a personal perk.

Grand white tents cover the sprawling exhibit which details the past fifty years of the company’s history in shipping and aeronautics. The display is so sprawling, in fact, that it spans the entirety of the vast, grassy lawns and nudges right up to a private racetrack on the property. The grounds are alive with the roar of the car engines as they spin past, providing a thrumming background melody to the chatter of elegantly dressed spectators milling around the track and between the tents. There are several pavilions worth of high class socialites enjoying champagne and caviar, all pretending to not abhor each other’s company. Uniformed waiters and security personnel alike flit about, fostering the kind of cheerful, subtly chaotic atmosphere that Kirk knows he was born to thrive in.

Oozing easy confidence, no one so much as looks twice at Kirk except to admire his figure as the agent infiltrates the throng. However, fitting the part only goes so far. Kirk is not a man to work without a plan, and he wants additional security if something goes wrong. Even with his brand of confidence, Kirk has never been too good to come up with a plan B. Before he can reach the main pavilion, Kirk takes a moment to look around, hoping for an easy target who will provide him insurance in the event that someone sees through his carefully constructed camouflage.

After a moment, Kirk spots a distracted looking gentleman who is holding a handful of paperwork. Smiling at his good fortune, Kirk straightens his suit and casually makes his way towards the man. Fluently adopting the mannerisms of a distracted wanderer himself, Kirk deliberately crosses paths with his mark in a fabricated jostle. Their shoulders collide, and Kirk quickly catches himself with a hand on the man’s shoulder, feigning surprise.

“Beg your pardon, sir,” Kirk apologizes quickly, flashing the man wide eyes and his most innocent smile, even as he turns away to tuck the invitation he’s just plucked out of the man’s hand into his jacket’s inner pocket. It’s been a while since Kirk has been able to indulge in a little sleight of hand, and it sends a quiet thrill of pleasure up his spine, oddly finding himself wishing that Spock had been there to see it, if only to prove himself capable.

Wearing an indulgent smile and high on his success, the agent winds his way through the Singh gardens, ignoring the alluring noises of the estate’s racetrack. He has a very particular mission in mind, and unfortunately, drooling over sports cars isn’t listed in his itinerary today. Spock would probably slip something particularly nasty in his drink if he spent the afternoon admiring the scenery instead of working. Though, considering his assigned target, Kirk isn’t too worried about pretending to drool over her instead of his preferred well-assembled engine. From the photos he’s seen of his mark, Marla Singh is almost as elegantly constructed as Italian engineering.

Kirk eventually meanders his way to the main tent. The partygoers all look disgustingly comfortable in their finery, each attempting to tacitly outdo each other via fashion statement and haughty anecdote. Kirk takes the opportunity to enjoy himself, mingling effortlessly with strangers and scoping out the attendees for any familiar faces. It takes him a moment, but then Kirk sees her. Marla Singh. He pauses to center himself, knowing the importance of a first interaction with the crux of their entire operation. Spock and Nyota are out there somewhere schmoozing with Rudi, but Kirk is here for her.

Kirk ducks behind a rack of ludicrously expensive bottles of champagne to keep to himself out of Marla’s gaze for the time being. Now that he’s found her, he wants a moment to observe. Unfortunately, his quick movement attracts a different kind of attention. A man in a dark security uniform is eyeing him now, so Kirk swallows and does his best to turn away with an air of nonchalance. He knows he’s been compromised as soon as the guard opens his mouth.

“Beg your pardon,” the man calls, as Kirk pretends to come down with a sudden case of deafness, inspecting a tiny model of what the label explains is the late Sergio Singh’s private fishing boat, the _Botany Bay_.

“Excuse me, sir?” The security guard continues, sounding out of breath. “Excuse me?”

Kirk turns to calmly wander in the opposite direction, continuing to ignore the man in the hope that he won’t want to make a scene, but he won’t shut up.

“Sir!”

Kirk grits his teeth and resists the urge to make his loose hands into fists. Everyone within a twenty foot radius goes quiet, staring at them now. Kirk curses internally and adopts a look of perfect bewilderment, turning around to face the disgruntled guard.

“Your invitation?” The guard is terse and insistent, practically fuming. It’s just bad luck that Kirk let himself look suspicious the same moment he allowed himself within a stone’s throw of security, too busy watching his mark to worry about keeping distance from them. But Kirk can’t afford to be kicked out now.

“Of course,” Kirk eases, pretending to be confused at this strange singling out as he pats himself down. The guard snorts, and his smug expression nearly puts Kirk over the top.

Fine, Kirk thinks, eyes flashing as he drops his hands, abandoning his search. This guy wants to make a scene? Two can play at that.  
“Oh, dear. You know, I think I must’ve left it in the jag,” Kirk sighs, voice sickeningly sweet as he adopts the oily expression he usually wears when he’s trying to get someone to punch him in the face.

The guard’s expression sours, and he looks like he’s ready to burst a blood vessel.

“You will come with me now, sir,” he hisses, gripping Kirk’s arm and placing a threatening hand at the small of his back.

Jackpot.

Kirk’s eyes narrow dangerously as he smiles and leans in, expression saccharine.

“_I am neither your girlfriend, nor an animal_,” he goads, slipping into flawless Italian. “_So. Get your hands off of me._”

The shocked expression on the guard’s face quickly melts into unbridled fury, and is followed by a sharp fist to Kirk’s jaw. Internally crowing with success, Kirk allows the motion to send him into an exaggerated stumble, falling against a cocktail table with decided dramatics.

The guard nearly pounces on him again right there, but a concerned young woman darts in to crouch at Kirk’s side where he has allowed himself to spill onto the floor. The kneeling lady coos and soothes a hand over Kirk’s bruised cheekbone, so he smiles dazzlingly at her as she offers him a revitalizing sip of champagne.

“Madam,” the guard protests fussily, stepping in threateningly and reaching for Kirk, who whips the stolen invitation out of his pocket and begins to fan himself with it, eyes wide.

The guard’s face goes ashen, and his mouth falls open in a soundless gape as he recognizes the format of the piece of paper in Kirk’s hand.

Kirk blinks up at his female rescuer and smiles sweetly at her. “I wonder what they do to people without invitations,” he sighs, sounding properly scandalized by this obviously uncalled-for treatment.

The guard disappears, white as a ghost, as Marla Singh herself makes her way to the front of the small crowd that has gathered around them. Her dark eyes lock with the woman at Kirk’s side, and the two seem to undergo a silent battle for the right to Kirk’s attention. It would appear that Marla overthrows her as the nameless woman scatters after only one tense moment, allowing Marla to step up and take her place.

Kirk puts on a properly embarrassed, charming expression as he takes in the woman before him. His mark is fashionably pale, dressed in a fine silk shift dress with her dark hair curled into an elegant updo. There is a tiny smudge of someone else’s lipstick on her cheek, and an easy swing to her steps. Her appearance practically screams “old money,” and Kirk can’t help but take in the layers of antique jewelry draped around the woman’s neck. She would be breathtakingly beautiful, if her brown eyes were not so cold.

Marla reaches down and delicately and offers Kirk a hand up. Not believing his luck, Kirk takes her hand and pretends to stumble as he rises, catching himself with a hand at the back of Marla’s neck as she allows him to regain his balance using her as a counterweight. Kirk revels in the continued attention of his little scene and smiles rakishly at his mark. He hadn’t originally planned on getting her attention so soon, but now that the fight has brought them together and gained Marla’s interest, Kirk isn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“I’m Marla Singh,” the woman reveals, amusement light in her tone. “I do believe an apology is in order.” She nods to the invitation in Kirk’s hand and smiles cooly at him.

“Thank you. Sam Jameson,” Kirk replies easily, shifting his balance with the abashed attitude of a man unused to being publicly humiliated.

“I’m alright, I think.”

Marla nods and slips her arm into the crook of Kirk’s elbow with the confidence of a woman who doesn’t need to wait for an offer, silently letting him lead them towards the garden. There are exquisite marble sculptures arranged artfully at all of the right intervals, and Kirk takes advantage of the calm moment to admire them.

“You have a beautiful collection. Extensive pieces from the Hellenistic period… Although, a few Classical pieces would provide some magnificent contrast,” Kirk muses idly, allowing his nonchalance to take on just the right kind of subtly suggestive tone. “You know, I’ve heard that a few sculptures lost during the war have come back around. If you know where to look,” Kirk suggests, noting the way Marla’s attention snags on the information. His research before the mission had told him that the Singhs were not only voracious collectors of art, but were indeed interested in acquiring rare pieces that could only be found on the black market. Luckily, that was Kirk’s particular specialty.

With the bait laid and observed, they fall into silence once again, though Kirk is content to wait, careful not to talk too much lest his eagerness give him away in his desire to uncover information. The quiet is strangely companionable for two people who have just met and have barely spoken to each other, but Kirk is no stranger to making fast friends. The fact that he’s still at Marla’s side tells him he’s doing something fantastically right.

It’s clear Marla is intrigued by him, or at least attracted to him, and Kirk isn’t too proud not to use every little thing he can in his favor. However, it’s also painfully obvious to Kirk that this has all been entirely too easy. He continues to allow Marla to hang off of his arm and show him around the marbles, all the while waiting for the other shoe to drop. Which means that when it inevitably does, he’s prepared for it.

“How did you get the invitation to my party?” Marla asks, relaxed and unbothered by the fact that Kirk does not belong. She seems more genuinely interested than wary, and Kirk finds himself grinning. Marla is a smart girl. He likes the smart ones.

Kirk nods and steps towards one of the linen-draped cocktail tables.

“Before we get there, allow me.” In an effortless motion, Kirk jerks the tablecloth out from under the abandoned champagne flutes and bits of trash the waiters have yet to collect, completing the maneuver without upsetting so much as a stray toothpick.

“Someone’s a little heavy with the lipstick,” Kirk explains, quickly folding the cloth to dab at the red smudge on Marla’s cheek that’s been bothering him, testing how comfortable the woman is in his presence. She allows Kirk’s touch and watches him through her eyelashes throughout the intimate gesture. He knows he’s got her.

“And you’re a little light with your fingers,” she observes, clearly amused, and Kirk grins again. Marla has no idea how correct she is. Deciding he might as well put up now, Kirk nods and pulls a gold necklace out of his sleeve. It’s Marla’s, and while she had been speaking of Kirk’s sticky fingers in reference to his tablecloth trick, it’s now clear she definitely hadn’t noticed he’d stolen her necklace when she’d helped him up off the floor. Marla’s shocked expression is worth Kirk letting himself get punched in the face for her attention.

“Etruscan, isn’t it?” Kirk muses, running his fingers fondly over the antique jewelry. “May I?” He starts again, moving behind Marla as he loops the chain around her neck to redo the clasp.

“If you don’t there could be trouble,” she murmurs, indulgent. Kirk gifts her with another winning smile.

“So, you are a thief?” she asks.

“I like to call myself a specialist in complicated acquisitions,” Kirk flirts, effortlessly redirecting as he slides back around to take Marla’s hand.

“I hope you wear a mask.”

“Sometimes,” Kirk admits with a soft smile, looking into dark eyes and imagining a very different pair. “Just not when I’m stealing things.”

Marla is quiet for a while, contemplative as she hooks her arm in Kirk’s again and leads him to the side of the paved racetrack. They stand together for a while, watching the brightly painted formula one cars whip by like an angry swarm of hornets. Now that he’s engaged with the mark, balancing on the knife edge of getting in close without giving away too much, Kirk almost forgets how to enjoy the races.

“I will not insult either of our intelligence’s and pretend that you do not want something out of this, Mister Jameson,” Marla begins, when the screaming engines are far enough away that they can speak without raising their voices. “So. What is it exactly that you think you can do for me?”

It seems all of his showing off is about to be rewarded, and he’s gotten Marla’s attention focused on exactly the right hidden talent. It’s his in.

“Let’s just say I fill gaps in important collections—those one or two special pieces that are impossible to acquire without the requisite skill set.”

“What is it that brings you to Rome, then, Mister Jameson? Is our meeting truly a happy coincidence? Or is this all some elaborate plot to exploit my good nature?” Marla hums, eyes hooded coyly.

She’s only flirting, but it makes Kirk uncomfortable how close to the truth she really is. He suddenly realizes that maybe he hasn’t actually convinced Marla of his assumed identity entirely. She’s obviously suspicious, and not merely in the way that one should be of an art thief. Kirk hasn’t fully sold his act.

“I’m just here to see the sights. Meeting you has been a fortunate pleasure,” Kirk demurs, and then Marla is leaning in close, so close that her intentions are unmistakable. Kirk abruptly recalculates. Maybe Marla did trust him, if this was where things were going. She could, Kirk reasons, just enjoy being lied to. Or perhaps, Kirk thinks wryly, he’s just an irresistible bastard. Unsure of what other choice he has with several different careful balancing acts already at play, Kirk begins to mirror Marla’s tilting head and closing eyes, all to the unwelcome thought that the last time he had been this close to kissing someone it had been Spock in the dress shop. Only that wasn’t right, proximity had been there but intention—

“Marla!” someone calls, and Kirk jerks back with wide eyes, unsure if he’s more alarmed by the loud interruption or the sudden realization of where his own thoughts had been trailing towards. Refocusing, he takes in the sight of the intrusion, a good looking man with silver streaked hair and a familiar suit that’s beaming as he approaches them. He apparently has no qualms about butting into the situation that had been about to unfold, and Kirk doesn’t know whether to be grateful for the disruption or irritated at the progress he’s likely just lost on his mission.

“Marla, it’s great to see you,” the man continues, stepping right into Marla’s space, as if he’s an old friend.

“Pike,” Marla acknowledges, greeting the man warmly with a kiss on each cheek before turning back to Kirk. “Pike runs the shipping department at British Oil, one of the giants in our line of work,” she explains.

“I’m sorry I’m so late. I stupidly seem to have lost my invitation,” Pike apologizes, and Kirk is struck with the sudden realization that Pike is familiar for a reason. He’s the same unfortunate soul Kirk had ran into earlier, in the process of stealing the invitation in question, outside of the main tent. Seizing the moment before Pike can come to a similar conclusion, the agent steps forward to offer his hand.

“Sam Jameson.”

Pike takes it, and his grip is firm, eyes assessing behind dark sunglasses. “Yes… Yes, I think we bumped into each other outside.”

Kirk buckles down on the spike of fear and offers Pike his most disarming smile.

“I do apologize, sir.”

“No, no, not at all,” Pike soothes, a tiny smile on his lips. “I noticed you’re very good with your hands.”

Kirk’s heart jumps into his mouth as Pike looks him up and down in a glance so quick, he almost misses it.

“Excuse me?” Kirk returns weakly, blood turning to ice in his veins. If Pike knows he stole his invitation and blows Kirk’s cover now, tips Marla off that he’s even more of a liar than he’s already made himself out to be, Kirk will have to throw out his whole side of the operation.

Pike’s eyes sparkle as he pushes his sunglasses on top of his head, revealing cool, clear eyes.

“I witnessed your trick with the tablecloth,” the man explains, a wry smile on his lips.

Kirk’s heart drops back down into his chest, and Pike continues.

“Were you by chance a waiter once?”

Kirk wants to strangle the smug bastard, but laughs and makes his excuses before falling silent, letting Marla and Pike command their own discussion.

Marla and Pike talk for a while, Kirk managing to follow the path of conversation without letting himself get pulled into it, attempting to keep out of the man’s spotlight while listening for any important details about their business.

Later, when Pike finally excuses himself, Kirk wonders if he’ll simply be dismissed, or if he’s about to be escorted off the property at Marla’s orders. Instead, Kirk finds himself trapped with Marla’s arm through his again as he is whisked away by his mark. Marla leads Kirk along the edge of the party, into the shade of the grandiose tents, and watches him through her eyelashes once she’s finally found them some privacy.

“Why don’t you pop into the office tomorrow morning? We can talk more about… filling in my gaps,” Marla suggests, fixing him with a look that’s loaded enough to make the back of his neck break out into a light sweat. The innuendo is not lost on Kirk, and he attempts to offer a roguish smile in return, hoping that it hits sincere, considering the better half of his brain is calculating a way out of the bedroom already.

“I’ll try not to disappoint,” he promises, taking Marla’s hand to kiss her knuckles. She smiles hungrily at him and lets it linger before she slips away. Kirk is left shaken and confused, but at least he knows that one way or another, his foot’s in the door. He’ll see Marla again. Even if she may not wholly buy his story yet, Kirk has at least won another chance to convince her and see if he can eke out any information about the missiles while he’s at it. It’s not much of a lead to go on, but it’s all he has for now. Kirk desperately hopes that Spock and Nyota have had better luck at the party than he has.

—————

When Kirk returns to the hotel, he expects to lounge around for the rest of the evening, maybe enjoy a nice drink at the hotel bar until his teammates return so they can share a mutual debriefing. It’s a bit of a rude interruption when instead, not an hour after Kirk gets back to the hotel and before he can even get his hands on any alcohol, his telephone rings.

“Hello?” Kirk answers, picking up the hand piece to hold it to his ear.

“Excuse me, sir? There is an issue with the hot water in my bathroom that I would like resolved, please.” Nyota’s voice filters through the speaker, and Kirk recognizes the coded message for what it is. It’s smart, considering they don’t know if anyone more sinister is listening in. Nyota sounds calm enough, however, so Kirk doesn’t panic.

“I’m sorry, you’ve got the wrong number, but I hear the staff are very quick with repairs. Good day,” he tells her pleasantly. Kirk hangs up the phone to shrug on his jacket and leave immediately for Spock and Nyota’s suite.

There is gentle music playing from inside when Kirk raps on the wooden door with his knuckles, anxiety gnawing at his gut. Nyota unlocks the door, swinging it wide open to admit him with a smile. Slightly suspicious, Kirk steps in and does a quick visual sweep of the room.

“Is everything alright? Where’s Spock?”

“Oh, yes. Everything’s fine. I didn’t mean to scare you,” Nyota reassures him, and Kirk visibly relaxes. Nyota picks her way across the room to drape herself elegantly across the settee. “Spock is busy, but he asked me to call you.”

Kirk nods and follows distractedly, settling into the armchair near the coffee table, right in front of a half-played game of chess. It’s not angled the proper way on the table to be simultaneously reached by two separate opponents, and Kirk wonders if Spock or Nyota have been sitting playing against themselves. Kirk thinks of Spock’s calculating eyes, his ability to live three steps ahead of reality, and would bet all of his money that it’s Spock.

A heavy clank comes from the bathroom, and Kirk jumps. Nyota giggles at him and shakes open a newspaper, crossing one long leg elegantly over the other.

“It’s just Spock. He’s developing photographs.”

“He’s _developing photographs_...” Kirk repeats incredulously, half wondering if Nyota is still talking to him in code.

She peers at him over the top of her page.

“From the party,” the woman adds, as if this makes her previous statement make any more sense.

Knowing that he’s missing something, but seeing that she’s currently unwilling to explain, Kirk shakes his head and picks up the black queen to fiddle with it.

“Can he hear us?”

Nyota gives him a quizzical look but nods. Kirk’s resultant shark-like grin and the manic gleam he knows he gets in his eyes makes Nyota roll her own to the ceiling as the American opens his mouth.

“Having fun in there, honey?” Kirk shouts, smothering a giggle at the very obvious sound of Spock dropping something heavy on the other side of the door. The Russian doesn't answer, and Nyota shakes her head as she flicks her paper to keep one of the corners from drooping forward.

“You tease him too much.”

Kirk offers her a shit-eating grin and shrugs, not apologetic in the slightest.

“How was the party?”

Nyota sighs and folds the paper in her lap, wisely giving up on any attempts at reading while Kirk is in the room.

“You first.”

Kirk has no qualms about bragging, so he nods as he widens his knees and shuffles back to get more comfortable in the chair. He makes sure to speak loudly and clearly enough that Spock will be able to hear every word. Kirk likes to talk, but he hates redundancy.

“I’ve got a meeting with Marla Singh for tomorrow morning to discuss filling in the holes in their sculptural antiquities collection. All it took was a little flirting and more than a little showing off,” Kirk broadcasts with a roguish smirk. Nyota rolls her eyes as he continues.

“I think she’s suspicious of me, but I couldn’t tell you if it’s because my cover identity is an untrustworthy man by nature, or if she sees through the facade. Either way, she’s definitely interested. But,” he says a bit louder, head tilting towards the door Spock’s hidden behind, eager for the Russian to hear, “it could just be my rugged good looks,” even if the man hears nothing else.

Nyota rolls her eyes again, but her small smile makes the gesture seem fond.

“What did you two dig up?” Kirk asks, eager to hear about what he had missed, now that he’s shared his own intel.

“I’ve arranged to have lunch with Uncle Rudi tomorrow, and I introduced Spock to him as my fiancé.” Noyta gnaws on her lower lip. “It didn’t go very well.”

Kirk laughs despite himself and sets the chess piece back down where he got it, absently contemplating future moves to be made for either side. He deliberates for a moment, assessing the positions of the pieces on each side of the board, and then chooses to move one of Spock’s bishops for him, claiming a turn in the game for Spock to discover later.

“Was it a personal issue with Spock’s lack of charm,” Kirk raises his voice again to the disapproving look of Nyota, “or is he suspicious too?”

Nyota shakes her head and shrugs. “It’s possible that it’s both. Uncle Rudi was always very good at getting information out of people, whether they wanted him to or not.”

Kirk thinks of Marla Singh and understands the feeling.

“Spock also…” Nyota begins again, looking tentative for the first time as long as Kirk has known her, as if she isn’t sure she’s allowed to be sharing with him. “Put several people in the hospital.”

Kirk sits bolt upright in his chair.

“He _what_?”

She shrugs, looking suddenly unapologetic as Spock flings the bathroom door open to hover at the threshold, glaring at Nyota under drawn brows.

“Wanna tell me how that went down, Vulcan? At a party?” Kirk asks incredulously, running a hand through his well-styled hair as Spock follows the motion with his eyes.

The Russian scowls and clutches at the photograph in his hands, lips stubbornly pressed together as tightly as Kirk has ever seen them.

“He got into a fight with three gentlemen and broke one’s arm over a sink,” Nota pipes up helpfully, happy to fill Spock’s silence.

“They had soft bones,” Spock murmurs, petulant gaze darting down towards the floor.

Kirk snorts as he tries not to laugh, knowing he shouldn’t be encouraging Spock.

“Alright, Super Agent. Didn’t know you liked getting rough in restrooms so much, or I would have come knocking on yours earlier,” Kirk says as he wiggles his eyebrows, hoping to get a rise out of Spock.

“Your new girlfriend is a Nazi,” Spock counters harshly, the awkward non-sequitur not doing enough to hide the fiery, hurt expression in his eyes. It makes Kirk want to push deeper.

“You’re right,” Kirk deflects. “She’s also a brilliant, beautiful gazillionaire, who offered me a job and is the key to this whole world saving operation. It isn’t my fault that she made advances towards me,” he adds smugly, just to be unkind.

Spock’s expression darkens, pinning Kirk down in a way that he finds hard to escape from. He can feel himself trying to swallow, the muscles of his throat working harder than normal to accomplish the simple task under the intensity of Spock’s gaze.

“She is nevertheless a member of one of the most historically repugnant groups in known history.”

“I don’t know what you’re so upset about, Spock, I’m not even the one who’s supposed to be your fiancé.”

“Do you always make a habit of using humor to mask your true desires?” Spock asks sharply, head tilted to one side and eyes burning.

Kirk’s breath leaves him as all else seems to fade away. The Russian’s dark eyes level with his, fierce in a way that would make more sense in a fistfight, not in the calm surroundings of a luxury hotel room. They’re almost violent in their mutual focus, to the point where Kirk worries whether Spock can see into his very soul. He begins to feel raw in a way that is unfamiliar.

Attention is how Kirk’s business operates. It’s where he shines, but this only leaves him feeling exposed and bare. When Nyota rises, clearing her throat with a distinct lack of subtlety, Spock’s eyes dart away quickly enough to leave Kirk feeling suddenly empty, his insides on fire.

“Did you have something to show us, Spock?”

Nyota’s level presence seems to shake Spock out of his spell as well, and he lifts the forgotten photograph in his hand.

“Look,” he commands, and Kirk rolls his eyes before padding over.

“Only because you’ve asked me so nicely, Mister Spock,” he mutters, unbothered when Spock drops his gaze to ignore the flirtatious remark. Kirk probably deserves to get hit once he’s within arm’s reach of the Russian, with how he’s been running his mouth, but the punch doesn’t come. Instead, Kirk is forced to settle for the better, though less entertaining outcome of being given the cold shoulder.

“The film I used at the party was treated previously to be sensitive to gamma radiation,” Spock explains, angling the photograph for Kirk to see. Nyota slips in behind Kirk to peer over his shoulder so that the three of them are huddled together, sharing a strange buzz of curiosity. The photograph in Spock’s hands depicts an oddly cropped image of Marla Singh beside her husband, both of them marred by a wash of vivid green and pink smeared across their torsos.

“These marks signify that the Singhs have been in close proximity to radioactive material within the last twenty-four hours. It is gamma radiation residue,” Spock explains, urgency coloring his tone. “Therefore, I hypothesize that they have indeed succeeded in enriching the uranium. If they have not completed constructing the nuclear warhead, they are exceptionally close to doing so. We need to move more quickly.”

Kirk’s thoughts race as he takes in the new information, and he bites his lip until it feels close to bleeding, forcing himself to stop when he notices Spock’s eyes zeroing in on the agitated skin. Kirk knows that if Spock is right about the uranium, then they need to get moving. Waiting for tomorrow to find out if the warheads are viable is too big of a risk, with their current timeline.

“Tell you what—I’m going to sleep on this,” Kirk declares, flashing Spock a quick grin and giving him a clap on the shoulder, squeezing the tight muscle there before breezing out of the room, almost afraid to look back and find the other man’s reaction. It’s time to suit up, and Kirk needs his head focused on the mission, not a pair of blazing brown eyes.


	5. Breaking Out

The man-made marina surrounding the Singh Aeronautics and Shipping factory is mostly deserted, placid water lapping at concrete walls and fiberglass hulls. Kirk settles further into the space between two shipping containers as he scopes out the scene. The factory is connected to the mainland by a single, narrow bridge manned by a guard station and several series of gates, making it difficult to access. The actual facility sits on an artificial island of concrete. A paved lot for truck access resides next to the building, on the side nearest the bridge. The factory itself comes right up to the edge of the water on the other side, making it appear as if the building is floating.

Where Kirk sits, there is only a chain link fence between himself and a side entrance to the factory. Patrolling night guards wander in carefully timed shifts, under yellowing floodlights and choked-out stars. They’re far enough away that they shouldn’t notice him, as long as Kirk waits for the right moment to cut the fence and slip through. From there, it’s a straight shot across the courtyard to the door, and into the warehouse.

If Spock was right and the Singhs have already begun to process the uranium they need to create a nuclear bomb, Kirk needs to have this information yesterday. The factory is the most likely place for any warheads to be hidden, and Kirk knows that he has the skills and the means to get some answers, if there’s any evidence here at all.

The entire world hangs in the balance, and he doesn’t trust Spock to come along with him for this kind of sensitive, desperate mission. They might be temporary teammates, and Kirk might be beginning to like the guy despite both of their best efforts, but trust is a difficult thing in this business. Should things go south, he doesn’t want to be worried about anyone else, especially someone who has strict orders to abandon him in the same scenario. Not to mention, what Kirk doesn’t have to share with Spock or Russia, he won’t. It’s easier that way, and at the end of the day, Kirk’s main goal is to give his own country the upper hand on the intel. It would also be very, very rewarding to witness the normally sharp, hard line of Spock’s face succumb to shock when the agent realizes Kirk knows something he doesn’t, when or if the time to share such information becomes relevant.

Kirk is busy waiting for the most recent round of guards to walk past so he can get a jump on the situation when the lights for the entire facility go out without warning. The courtyard is plunged into utter darkness, and the factory itself is black, but for the weak interior emergency lights that illuminate the windows.

Immediately on guard, Kirk slips out from his hiding spot and approaches the fence, gun drawn. A small electrical sound from his right catches Kirk’s attention, and he turns on his heel to find a sight that should surprise him more than it does. He tries to tell himself that this feeling he’s experiencing is agitation, but it seems to insist on being amusement instead. About five yards away sits Spock, crouching over a panel that’s plugged into the factory’s main power line.

The Russian agent is decked out in all black, with a turtleneck layered beneath a close fitting jacket and practical trousers that outline Spock’s muscular frame and do nothing to hide the gun holstered at his hip. Kirk looks down at his own all-black getup and frowns. They look like they’ve been dressed to match by their mothers, and Kirk can’t help the small sound of annoyance that escapes the back of his throat at the idea. The noise immediately catches Spock’s attention, and Kirk gets to enjoy the second, brief double-take he’s gotten out of Spock in their short time together.

Kirk puts away his own gun and wanders over to Spock, deciding that they might as well acknowledge each other, since he’s been spotted very much outside after his promise of very different evening plans.

“Is this what you call ‘sleeping on it’?” Spock asks, making Kirk’s nose scrunch up indignantly. He doesn’t validate the other man with an answer and comes over to kneel beside him, peering at the device between the agent’s sharp knees. It’s some sort of electrical circuit board with more switches than Kirk would know what to do with. Spock simply raises an eyebrow and begins to pack the equipment away, task apparently finished.

“I suppose you’re the miracle worker responsible for the lights.” Kirk nods at the disappearing mess of toggles and wires.

“I do not believe in miracles. However, you are welcome,” Spock deadpans, obviously gearing up to head into the belly of the beast, just like Kirk. Spock’s company is not something Kirk is prepared to handle, and he’s bitter about it too. Of course they would have the same idea and try to sneak out behind each other’s backs. Kirk may have found it funny, if only he weren’t decidedly not in the mood.

“The thing is, I’m pretty sure this was my idea, and I got here first. I work better alone.” Kirk raises his chin and stares at Spock, daring the Russian to challenge him.

“As do I,” Spock replies, looking up to make unflinching eye contact. His irises are nearly black in the dark, and the sight makes Kirk’s breath catch.

“I’m not leaving,” Kirk manages, stubbornness kicking in even if the rest of his brain is distracted by the way the starlight works the angles of Spock’s face, softening it somehow.

“We have approximately ten minutes before the power comes back on. If you would prefer to sit here and think about—”

“Okay, okay. I’ll let you tag along,” Kirk butts in, because he’s the breaking and entering expert, here, and he’s not letting Spock take point on this operation. “But that means it’s in and out, no mess, so nobody knows we’ve been here. And we both forget about everything in the morning.”

“Acknowledged,” Spock agrees, though his normally monotone voice manages to sound even less pleased than Kirk feels.

Feeling pretty put-upon himself, Kirk sighs and gets to work, reaching into his bag for a pair of compact shears. Spock watches in silence as Kirk begins to snip the wires of the chain link fence one at a time. The Russian wrinkles his nose, staring at the tool with mild disgust etched into his sharp features.

“What is that?”

Kirk grins and wiggles his eyebrows at his partner, holding the clippers aloft proudly. “Super-hardened boron blades sharpened with a CO2 laser.”

Spock raises one of his own eyebrows in reply and pulls out his own a device, a rod with a glowing red beam between two poles. He holds it out to the fence, the laser slicing through the metal like butter, making a gap about the size of a child in only a few seconds. Spock does not take his eyes off of Kirk as he works, hand moving independently of his focus.

“What is _that_?” Kirk asks, mouth feeling a little dry as he watches Spock’s hands, the Russian’s gaze still heavy in his peripheral.

Spock smirks and pockets the device with deft, clever fingers.

“A CO2 _laser_. My people have decided, to use an American phrase, to ‘cut out the middle man.’”

Kirk could swear that Spock smiles as he puts away the tool and swings his bag over his shoulder.

“Are you still coming, _Captain_?”

Kirk isn’t sure what to make of Spock’s dry teasing, and is left with no choice but to follow as Spock slips through the fence without waiting for his answer. The Russian slinks like a cat, fluid as he melts into the shadows. Kirk is less graceful, but he does well enough, conceding to Spock taking the lead as they duck behind shipping crates and move in on the warehouse. There’s a locked door before them, with a traditional sash lock on the handle and a deadbolt above it. The agents turn to each other, eyes meeting across the small expanse between them.

“I will take the bottom lock,” Spock whispers, just as Kirk announces, “I’ll take the top.”

The agents let the pause stretch, eye contact lingering as Kirk grins despite himself, surprised to see Spock mirror his expression, a more subtle smile living in the corners of his mouth. The spell only lasts a brief moment before they fall into action again, moving around each other with surprising ease. Kirk pulls out his favorite lock picking tool and presses it into the keyhole, twisting it expertly to immediately unlock the bolt with little effort on his part.

When he glances down, expecting Spock to be ready to go, Kirk’s mouth nearly drops open at what he sees instead. Spock is holding an honest-to-god wire shoved into the keyhole, with a connected headset over his ears so he can hear the locking mechanism inside. His technique is classic, though embarrassingly outdated, and exceptionally slow. With Spock continuing to move at a glacial pace and judging by the tense line of his shoulders, it’s clear to Kirk that he’s struggling. It would be hilarious and perhaps even a little bit endearing to watch Spock flounder, if the situation weren’t so dire.

“Problem?” Kirk asks, just as he looks up to notice a pair of security guards slowly making their rounds, headed right towards them. They’re mostly hidden, thanks to the lack of proper lighting, but if the men get much closer, they won’t be for long. Spock doesn’t answer, so Kirk presses him again.

“Is there _anything_ I can do to help?”

Spock shoots him a look of pure irritation from where he’s kneeling on the ground, but gives a jerky nod as he continues to fiddle with his antiquated device.

“Yes, there is. You can be silent.”

The guards come around the corner of a shipping container, growing steadily closer. Kirk nudges Spock with his boot, one hand on his gun in case he needs to start defending himself. Kirk knows he can finesse his way out of a gunfight if it comes to that, but that the security measures will only increase tenfold after he’s escaped, making it impossible to even get this far if he tries to come back for a second attempt. With Spock’s technique, that outcome is becoming an increasingly likely reality.

“Just let me do it,” Kirk hisses, not in the mood to die because Spock is suddenly interested in a pissing contest.

Spock clings to his pride for a desperate moment and then breaks, attempting to move out of the way while Kirk practically falls into his lap in his haste. He gets his tool in place on the lock not a moment too soon. The door swings open, and the agents tumble through to land together in an uncoordinated heap. Spock just barely manages to kick the door closed behind them in the struggle.

Footsteps approach much too soon for comfort and the doorknob rattles. He hopes that the guards are just checking to see if it’s still locked, since they’re not shouting like they’ve seen any intruders. Kirk holds his breath as he feels Spock’s exhale over the skin of his neck, trying to focus instead on the bony Russian elbow digging into his ribs as they lie on the concrete. The door doesn’t budge, and the footsteps on the other side finally recede.

Kirk lets out an amused huff as he lets his muscles relax, waiting for the Russian’s inevitable grunt of displeasure as Spock untangles them. He’s almost too caught up in counting their points of contact to realize his partner has curiously yet to take the initiative to remove himself. Kirk allows another moment to pass, listening for traces of footsteps that Spock may be hearing, before he extracts himself from the tangle of long limbs. The other man is resolutely avoiding his gaze as they both, finally, pick themselves up.

Unsure of what to make of the odd moment, Kirk reverts to what he does best and opens his mouth, aiming to distract himself from the odd dual sensations of pleasure and uncertainty he had felt with Spock lying on top of him.

“Well then, Mister Spock. Shall we? Loving your technique, by the way,” Kirk teases, sarcasm thick with playfulness ruling his tone as he brushes himself off. Spock’s cheeks seem to color in the dim lighting, though if it’s from embarrassment or the vague flirting, Kirk doesn’t know.

“You do the second floor, I’ll take the labs,” Kirk suggests, feeling more than seeing Spock come to stand beside him as they stare at the bare, industrial beams of a staircase. Surprisingly, the Russian’s silence helps settle Kirk, envelops him in something familiar and predictable, helps Kirk refocus on the mission at hand.

“I will take the labs,” Spock counters after a pause, sounding unaffected by their little moment on the ground even if his cheeks still seem darker in the low light.

Kirk sighs and nods, not in the mood to argue and feeling strangely indulgent in regards to his surly partner.

“Yeah, alright, just a quick sweep. And remember to be quiet. Meet me at the top of the stairs in five minutes. Try not to get lost.” Kirk waits until the Russian turns away with a roll of his dark eyes before adding, “And, Spock? Call me if you need any locks pick.”

Spock glances back to fix him with a flat look, and is gone. Kirk is still trying not to snicker as he creeps up the stairs to investigate. It’s a long five minutes of stalking through mostly empty rooms full of powered down engineering equipment, and though he runs his radiation scanner over every possible surface, Kirk comes up with nothing. He’s forced to circle back empty-handed, and finds Spock waiting at the rendezvous point, resting in the shadow of a doorway like a wraith.

“Clean as a whistle,” Kirk reports, pouting and letting his shoulders slump. He moves to stand with Spock near the wall where they have some minimal cover, probably a little closer to him than is strictly necessary.

“My scans revealed nothing, as well.”

Kirk sighs, consoling himself that at least he hasn’t been shown up, and they’re both together in their failure. Before he can open his mouth to say as much, the quiet rattling of footsteps begin to echo through the empty halls. Kirk doesn’t even get a chance to breathe before Spock is flattening him to the wall, a solid block of muscle bracketing him into a corner. Kirk barely holds back a soft grunt as the pressure of Spock against his chest forces the breath to leave his lungs. The American loses a fight of hips as his angle out towards the Russian’s in an attempt to twist his spine away from the uncomfortably uneven texture of the wall.

The thick, wooly scent of Spock’s sweater mingles deliciously with the citrus tones that Kirk recognizes as the hotel’s complimentary shampoo, and the faintly spicy scent that must be Spock himself. It’s all Kirk can do to not inhale too deeply, lest he start drooling on his temperamental partner. Suddenly, he’s never been happier, stuck between the proverbial rock and a hard place, with Spock’s breath hot in his ear.

The quiet chatter of the patrolling guard’s radio fills the silence, distracting Kirk from the way his sternum presses against Spock’s own, his left leg filling the space between the Russian’s longer ones. The guard comes to a stop right in front of them, just beyond the shelter of the doorway where Spock has hidden them. He sounds close enough to touch, and Kirk’s wonders if his partner can hear the pounding of his blood, so deafeningly loud in his own ears. Kirk clenches his jaw, wondering if they’re about to be spotted, and feels Spock tense against him, pressing in more tightly as if it will help them to disappear.

Kirk wonders faintly if his current position is an attempt by Spock to shield him, or if he just thinks Kirk is too dumb to get out of sight in time, and Spock does’t want to risk Kirk giving either of their positions away. Slowly, painfully slowly, the sound of the guard’s footsteps fade away. Kirk allows his muscles to loosen, liquid against the wall where Spock keeps him pinned.

Again, it seems, the Russian is in no hurry to remove himself. Kirk’s heart starts pounding again for an entirely different reason.

Hardly daring to move, Kirk turns his head to look at Spock, so near that Kirk’s eyes refuse to focus on him, leaving his features blurry. They share a breath between them, so different from the last time they’d been close like this, arguing over dresses in a department store. This time feels very, very different.

Spock finally stops staring at the wall over Kirk’s shoulder to look at the man himself, his lips slightly parted. Even from this perspective, Kirk can see that Spock’s pupils are blown wide and the light dusting of color on his cheeks. Kirk is dizzy as his own eyelids lower, his tipping his chin up ever so slightly, nearly unconsciously. Spock shudders almost imperceptibly, angling his face just the right way, moving in closer at a glacial pace, and Kirk allows his eyes to slip fully closed. Kirk can practically taste Spock on his lips, heat radiating in so close, until the nearby guard’s radio goes off again, somewhere down the hall.

The moment shatters.

Spock jerks away, breaking contact with Kirk fully and reeling back as if he’s been burned. Disappointment and shock crash over Kirk like a bucket of ice water, blinking fast as he attempts to decipher exactly what he had just been about to do to his partner. Spock stares at Kirk for a moment, uncharacteristically shaky.

Kirk is left puzzled, until he remembers that Spock definitely does not of Kirk think the way the American thinks of him. Kirk might have just experienced a moment of insanity where he nearly kissed Spock, his _Russian_ partner, but now it is painfully clear that Spock was not about to do the same. Kirk knows the man hates his guts. He’s been all sharp looks and clipped comments ever since the start of the mission, clearly only willing to tolerate Kirk’s lowly presence because he has been ordered to do so. Kirk is certain that Spock’s sexual preferences aren’t the issue, from how the man had initially reacted to his flirting and Kirk getting into his personal space in the department store. So that just leaves the assumption that Spock’s problem is with Kirk himself. Even now, Spock is staring down the hall after the guard, eyes wide and unseeing as he avoids looking at Kirk.

Bitterness roils in Kirk’s chest as he peels himself from the wall and trails after Spock but keeps his distance, reminding himself that there are no happy endings here, not for them. Kirk might have been dangerously close to leaning in and snagging Spock’s lips between his teeth, but the Russian probably has no idea what he’d just escaped this time. Just how close they had been.

Spock continues to ignore Kirk, acting as though he’s simply disgusted from having to maintain contact with an ignoble criminal for so long. Kirk is left feeling hurt, but knows he should probably consider himself lucky Spock is only giving him the cold shoulder. If Kirk had actually kissed him, the American would probably be out cold on the floor right now, and he’s been punched enough this week already to last him a lifetime.

Confusion roars inside of Kirk as he continues to try to filter through all of his mixed feelings. It’s not Kirk’s fault that he finds Spock so incredibly, ridiculously attractive, or that the Russian hasn’t done much to shut down Kirk’s flirting. But Kirk knows he needs to remember that technically, they’re still enemies. At best, they’re temporary partners in a fragile truce built on a mutual sense of duty, and the knowledge that they need each other to succeed. Kirk is an idiot for letting himself be affected by Spock, and if he can’t help his feelings, he at least needs to learn to control them.

After his prolonged pause, Spock shakes himself off like a dog shedding water and turns to pace after the guard, still refusing to look at Kirk. The American grits his teeth and follows, equal parts bewildered and frustrated. In light of the covert operation they’re still in the middle of performing, Kirk is more than willing to let what had passed between them remain undiscussed, at least for now. It isn’t the time to dwell on what Spock may or may not think of him, or sulk over wounded feelings.

“Wait,” Kirk hisses, following after Spock in a bout of confusion. “What are you doing? Leave him alone. No one is supposed to know we’re here, remember?”

Spock ignores him admirably, zeroed in as he stalks after the faint sound of the guard’s footsteps. Kirk has no choice but to come along for the ride and hope that Spock, the imperious bastard, knows what he’s doing.

They come around a corner to find a large locker room, unoccupied except for the security guard entering the combination into one of the locks. Kirk freezes, horrified, when Spock steps into the room at the guard’s back. He’s left to watch as Spock creeps forward, silent as a shadow, until he is mere inches from the oblivious guard. When the agent reaches out and lays his hand on the man’s shoulder, twisting sharply at the base of his neck, Kirk nearly chokes.

The guard crumples like a rag doll, and slumps into the ground with the same dignity as a wet noodle. Spock bends down and tugs at the man’s sleeve, revealing a glinting silver bracelet. The Russian stills for a moment, frustration palpable in the silence, and then rises again. The guard does not move.

“_Why_?” Jim begs, exasperated as he slips into the room and stares at the fallen guard with wide eyes. Spock shakes his head and backs away, into Kirk’s space. His voice is small.

“I believed that I saw my father’s watch. I have made a mistake.”

Kirk shakes his head and blinks down at the guard over Spock’s shoulder, rising up on his toes to get a better view. He’s surprised Spock is willing to stand so close to him at the moment, but isn’t complaining, even if maybe he should be holding a grudge, or keeping the distance for his own sanity. But it’s cold in the warehouse, and Spock radiates a heat Kirk can feel even from this distance. He’s more than happy to take advantage of the other man’s proximity when it is so freely offered to him.

“And what, exactly, did you do to him?” Kirk finds himself asking, worried that now they’re going to have to hide a body.

“In the KGB, we call it ‘the kiss.’ It is the manipulation of a certain cluster of nerves that temporarily shuts down the rest of the body’s system. It takes years to master, and requires significant control. He will likely remain in this state for approximately twenty more minutes, if we do not disturb him.”

Of course Spock would have something so ridiculously dramatic and frighteningly effective hidden up his sleeve.

“Wow,” Kirk muses, imagining all of the times a trick like that could come in handy. “Wish you’d teach me that.”

The halls choose that particular moment to flood with light, and Kirk sighs.

“Generator’s back on,” Kirk retorts, chipper in his redundancy. It’s past time they get going.

However, the sudden ability to see more than a few odd sections of halls lit by emergency lights now reveals the inside of the security guard’s locker, left open thanks to Spock’s intervention. Kirk’s eyebrows draw together as he steps around Spock, peering into the locker only for his eyebrows to lift again.

“Hey, Spock? Why do you think someone would have a radiation suit in a satellite factory?”

Spock steps closer to see into the locker, apparently even more comfortable invading Kirk’s space now that they’ve shared their little moment against the wall. Kirk doesn’t know what to make of it, but now isn’t the time to try to figure it out.

“A radiation suit… beside a hidden button,” Spock ponders, leaning in and reaching past Kirk to flip a nondescript switch at the back of the locker. “We would not have discovered this, if not for my father’s watch,” he declares, and the sentiment is so unusually emotional, coming from Spock that Kirk feels the ridiculous urge to soothe his partner. He might have done it too, if Spock’s expression wasn’t so smug.

When they both turn around, there’s a large panel in the floor that is slowly drawing back, revealing a hidden room below. Spock’s expression becomes insufferable. Kirk rolls his eyes and adjusts the holstered gun strapped to his thigh.

“Wanna take a look?” he proposes, peering down into what feels like an abyss. The drop is only about ten feet, although there’s no ladder or staircase in sight to ease their descent.

Spock abruptly folds into a crouch and drops down into the room without hesitation, landing silently on the balls of his feet like a cat.

“Showoff,” Kirk mutters, following with only slightly less grace.

The space below them is cavernous. It’s clear that the layout beneath the factory is equal in size to the area above, though this is clearly not any place satellites or ships are made. The massive, silvery vault built into one of the walls immediately catches Kirk’s attention, and he brushes past Spock to inspect it, not caring if the other agent joins him.

He’s staring at it in awe when a slight breeze at his back broadcasts Spock’s silent arrival.

“This is a Swiss-built Vortbinder-Lanszmann 1701 model,” Kirk gushes, breathless with begrudging admiration. “If they’re keeping any secrets, they’re keeping them here.”

Kirk drops into a crouch, one knee resting against the smooth concrete floor as he pulls one of his favorite lock breaking devices from a hidden pocket in his jacket. The spoked handle of the vault glints in the low lighting, and Kirk resists the urge to run his gloved fingertips over all the parts that he can reach as he attaches the new gadget to the safe’s mechanisms.

“This pretty lady has dual combination locks, triple return rotators, and synchronized cylinders. The earlier models had a design flaw,” Kirk babbles, in heaven now that he has a chance to show off his real skills, especially if he can rub them in Spock’s face, prove himself to the Russian once again as more than just a pretty face and a smart mouth.

“Since you seem a little… shall we say, lacking, in the lock department, I won’t go into the flaw’s details for you. But I do plan on exploiting it. It’ll be difficult, but not impossible. See, the people who designed this safe weren’t very good at stealing things. Fortunately, I am.”

Under Kirk’s clever hands and with the aid of his lock-breaker, the vault finally gives the particular click Kirk has been waiting for. Kirk grins like a loon as he begins to turn the enormous handle and the lock’s cylinders fall into their proper places. He’s got it.

“Did you deactivate the alarm?” Spock asks, hands tucked behind his back as he watches with an expression so impassive that it has to be a mask, concealing his actual reaction.

“Model 1701 doesn’t have an alarm,” Kirk retorts, winking at Spock as the door finally swings open.

A klaxon begins to blare at a truly deafening level, and Kirk feels his stomach drop out. Spock raises a single eyebrow and flicks his gaze from Kirk to the sprung vault.

“Your skills are truly remarkable, Captain.”

If sarcasm could do physical damage, the levels in Spock’s voice would be lethal. The pounding of several sets of footsteps rushing towards them floods the room, echoing through the corridor, and Kirk shoots Spock a venomous glare.

“Shut up.”

He’s just moving to peer into the vault when an ironlike hand snags the back of his collar and yanks.

“Hey—“

“There is no time, Kirk,” Spock deadpans, bodily heaving Kirk along despite the smaller man’s valiant struggles.

“I got it open! We have to see what’s in there! It could be our missile, Spock!”

“We cannot, if you wish to get out alive.”

An unholy spray of bullets dig into the ground where Kirk’s boots had been just a second earlier. Kirk’s face pales as he realizes he would have been hit if it weren’t for Spock dragging him away. He finally stops struggling, taking off at a run, his hand darting out to grab Spock’s now as he takes the lead.

“Let’s go!”

Spock needs no other incentive to follow, and soon they’re both sprinting towards a staircase that will lead them out of the basement level and into the main warehouse. More bullets and angry shouts close in on them as they scramble for cover, or an exit.

“God-damnit,” Kirk hisses, as soon as they’ve found metal cabinet to hunker down behind. The guards have chased up to the second story, stranded high without a path to the ground. A bullet whines past Kirk’s ear, and he grits his teeth before leaning out from behind the piece of machinery to fire a few shots in the direction of their attackers. Spock occasionally does the same, looking grim as they try to prevent the guards from closing in.

There’s a strange sense of calm that has settled over Kirk, the kind that always does when he’s in a life or death situation and he has only his wits to get himself out of it. There are several reasons he’s the CIA’s top operative, and not all of them have to do with deception or charm. He takes advantage of the moment to look once more at their surroundings, now that they’re flooded with light.

“Spock,” Kirk begins over the din of bullet fire. “Does this mean anything to you?”

He points at the area of the facility they’ve found themselves in, everything finally making sense as he observes the overall structure of the building. Surprisingly, Spock takes a small break from the shooting to look up, tracing the line of Kirk’s sight to the key elements of the architecture. Kirk can see the moment things click into place behind those dark eyes as they slide back to meet his in understanding.

“This entire facility is a centrifuge, for refining uranium,” Spock yells over the clatter. Awed at the Russian’s quick uptake and what their discovery means for their situation, Kirk can only nod.

“No wonder the place is so empty,” he muses. The warehouse is a cover for the real work the Singhs are doing here. They’re not making satellites, they’re playing nuclear physicist.

The gunfire continues mercilessly, and Kirk shakes his head.

“I will not let us remain here to die,” Spock declares suddenly, and Kirk whips around to stare at him.

“Where are we gonna go?”

They’re still cornered, with only a wide window to their left and gunmen surrounding them everywhere else. Spock’s severe face looks contemplative, and Kirk gets an unusually bad feeling.

“I believe that I will endeavor to go swimming,” Spock announces primly, tucking his gun away and leaving Kirk gaping. Without another word, the Russian rises and sprints for the open window, leaving Kirk to frantically cover him as Spock makes the mad dash, and flings himself out into the marina below.

“This is crazy” Kirk mutters to no one but himself, sucking in a deep breath and psyching himself up before following after Spock, running for the window to take a flying leap.

He’s braced for the shock of cold water, and instead nearly gets the wind knocked out of him when he plummets into a pile of something hard and decidedly not wet. Disoriented and aching beyond belief, despite the adrenaline still numbing his system, Kirk groans and pulls himself out of what he discovers is a nest of ship’s ropes.

He’d jumped onto the dock, and apparently, so had Spock. Kirk gets up in time to see the other man limp into a tiny, streamlined luxury boat tied to the wharf, and fights the urge to fling expletives at the Russian for his poor escape choices. But at least they’re both alive and relatively unharmed, with the means to make a quick getaway at their fingertips.

“I hate you,” Kirk growls as he drags himself into the boat after Spock, collapsing into the passenger seat. Spock, who is busy hot-wiring the engine, doesn’t bother dignifying Kirk with an answer. The Russian manages to coax the engine to life with a roar just as guards begin to pour out of the warehouse and into their own boats.

The boat rips away from the dock as Spock pushes it to its top speed, face growing grimmer as they approach one of the marina gates. The massive concrete arms are slowly beginning to swing closed in front of them.

“We’re not gonna make it,” Kirk squeaks, feeling his stomach churn as Spock only guns it in response, aiming for the tiny, shrinking gap. Kirk screws his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to watch them get flattened, and nearly goes flying out of the boat instead when Spock executes a hairpin turn at the last possible second to avoid the gate altogether.

Kirk sucks in a relieved breath and presses back into his seat, still holding on tight.

“Told you we wouldn’t fit,” he mutters aggressively, not intending for Spock to hear him over the wind or the roar of the luxury engine. The man shoots him a glare anyway and begins to speed towards the next closest marina gate. Thankfully, this one shuts long before they can even get close and Spock can decide he wants to play chicken with a concrete wall. But it’s still one exit route lost, and Kirk is desperately trying not to calculate their chances of escaping alive.

“We’ve got three exits and two of them are closed,” Kirk complains over the noise, ducking as renewed gunfire begins to pepper their boat. Two guard boats have been launched after them, armed with men and more floodlights.

“I do not require your commentary on this matter,” Spock yells back, abruptly steering their boat towards the last remaining exit.

“You’re not gonna make it,” Kirk moans, feeling himself pale and his palms grow sweaty against the armrests.

“Be silent,” Spock snaps, and nearly steers them directly into one of the patrol boats cutting across their path, the metal form rising up to meet them in the blink of an eye. Kirk shouts as Spock jerks the wheel to the side, avoiding a collision, and the American is still fighting off his bout of deja-vu when he’s thrown from the boat from the force of the turn.

He hits the water with a smack, saltwater immediately flooding his mouth and nose. Kirk resurfaces violently, hacking and spitting as he marvels, furiously, at the fact that he is still alive after his impromptu baptism. The impact had hurt significantly more than hitting a pile of ropes, and Kirk’s body is killing him, but he’s not eager to get cut up by the propellers still flying around the marina in pursuit of Spock. Kirk forces himself to swim to the dock and drags his body up onto the reinforced wooden planks with a groan, muscles aching.

Nobody seems to notice Kirk is missing, or maybe Spock is just the bigger danger to them at the moment, still steering the boat in wild, evasive circles in the tiny marina behind him. Grumbling to himself, Kirk staggers his way over to a parked shipping truck for cover. It takes him only a few seconds to unlock the door before he’s slipping inside the cab.

It’s surprisingly peaceful inside, with the sounds of engines and gunfire muffled by glass and metal. The entire marina is illuminated with floodlights from the warehouse and boats, and the wakes left by Spock’s desperate driving and the equally hectic patterns of his pursuers have foamed the water into a delicate turquoise. Kirk sneers to himself, still feeling particularly resentful about having been catapulted into the water, and rakes his wet hair away from his forehead.

In no hurry to move from his spot while Spock struggles out past the window, Kirk begins to inspect the truck. A pair of keys fall out from behind the sun visor when he lifts it, so Kirk plugs them into the ignition and turns on the radio. This way, at least, he has some music to go along with the show Spock is making of himself. The Russian deserves to be chased around like that, after the harebrained stunt he’d pulled trying to get them out of there. So much for planning ahead. Maybe it had been Nyota playing the solitary chess game, back at the hotel, and not Spock, Kirk muses bitterly.

He snatches up a cloth napkin someone has left on the seat and wipes the water out of his eyes before scrubbing roughly over his hair. When Kirk looks up again to see how Spock is faring, he is slightly startled to find the little luxury boat in splintered ruins in the water, crashed against the now disabled hull of one of the patrol boats. The surface of the water is alight with an oil fire, and the remaining, undamaged patrol ship floats close to Kirk, floodlights roaming as the guards search for signs of life.

Kirk watches too, and when after a while, Spock doesn’t surface, he feels a baffling pang in his chest. This is fine, Kirk reasons, to let Spock die, or at least to allow the Russian to fend for his own life, unaided. They were partners for the moment, yes, but in a few day’s time, if all went well and they retrieved the information disk, only one of them would be walking away from it.

Kirk scowls and scrubs at his face with the napkin again as he reasons with himself. Better to let Spock go now, rid himself of the competition while he doesn’t actually have to do any of the work. This will be less painful than killing Spock himself. Because Kirk knows, that if they do get the disk, Spock will fight. And Kirk will have to do his job. He didn’t become the CIA’s best agent by getting attached to the other players in the game. Letting Spock drown is the smart thing to do. Kirk can blame the incident on the Singhs, and enjoy an easier mission because of it.

Besides, going in after Spock will only risk his own capture or death and compromise their entire mission. A mission that is, quite literally, of global importance. This is bigger than the life of one man who knew what he was getting himself into.

The water continues to mellow, and as time stretches on and no glossy black head breaks the surface, the sharp feeling in Kirk’s chest intensifies. He imagines, against his own will, what Spock’s brown eyes might look like lifeless and thinks his hands would shake, if he let them.

“God-damnit,” he mutters to himself, feeling his shoulders droop forward in defeat.

It only takes a second to turn the key over in the ignition, the engine starting up as Kirk flicks on the headlights, not caring if his position is finally given away considering what he is about to do. Kirk waits until the remaining patrol boat that is still circling the fire nearly aligns with him before flooding the gas pedal. The truck speeds down the dock and right off the end of it, landing on top of the poor souls in the boat, who had, to be fair, spent the better part of the hour trying to kill them. As the truck begins to sink with the boat beneath it, Kirk sighs and resigns himself to another swim, rolling up the window as the radio continues to play. The music impresses upon the moment a surreal sense of calm.

Kirk hates working with Spock as much as he enjoys it. The man gets under his skin only slightly less than Kirk is sure he gets under Spock’s. But quarter-life crisis aside, Spock is still Kirk’s partner, at least for the time being. Kirk isn’t going to abandon him now, for the same reason he hadn’t shot Spock as the agent pulled the back off of Nyota’s car in East Berlin. Because maybe, against every once of his already scarce better judgment, Kirk might accidentally like the guy.

The truck finally hits the bottom of the marina, cushioned by the crunch of the boat below. The water is lit up an ethereal blue, nearly glowing from the floodlights still beaming onto the surface above them. Water rushes in steadily through all of the little gaps in the poorly sealed cab’s seams, but there’s enough air left to provide Kirk his own private, underwater viewing bubble. There’s no mistaking the black turtleneck-clad body floating limply near the sandy floor in perfect range of the truck’s headlights, not even ten yards away. Kirk would almost be annoyed by Spock’s luck, if he weren’t so grateful for it.

With another sigh, Kirk reaches over to crank down the window and holds his breath, popping his ears as the torrent of water pours in, crushing him against the seat. It’s torture, waiting for the entire cab to fill so Kirk can swim out, but once it does, the agent wastes no time worming his way out towards Spock. The saltwater is stinging Kirk’s eyes by the time he reaches the Russian, grabbing him with cold fingers and drawing Spock to his chest. Spock’s body is warm and heavy against Kirk as he pushes off the bottom, propelling them both to the top. When Spock’s face hits the surface, the Russian twitches listlessly, and then immediately begins to gasp and choke, filling Kirk with an unreasonable rush of relief.

“I’ve got you Spock,” Kirk rasps into the other man’s ear, coughing as his own lungs rid themselves of the little bit of water he had sucked in during the rescue. Spock doesn’t respond beyond continuing to struggle against the water in his chest, limp but breathing. With no more guards on the prowl, Kirk drags them both to the edge of the marina unseen. When he hauls Spock out of the water and onto the safety of the mainland, the Russian clings to Kirk, leaning on him as if all of the fight has been drained from his body.

Kirk continues to mumble reassurances to Spock, wishing he had time to give the man to recover as he draws the agent’s arm over his shoulder to support him as they stumble into town. From there, it’s easy work to steal a scooter, and Spock doesn’t even protest when Kirk climbs on first and gestures for Spock to wrap both arms around his waist. They slump together in a freezing, sodden pile the entire drive back. Spock continues to cough up seawater into Kirk’s shoulder for the entire ride, and for some reason, the American finds he does not mind. It might be for the same reasons that Kirk finds himself unreasonably distracted by the way Spock’s hands shake with shivers against the thin front of his shirt, or how comforting it is to have the hot press of Spock’s firm chest against his back.

Kirk parks the stolen scooter in a nondescript location several blocks from the hotel and stands to offer Spock a hand up. After a moment of reluctance, the agent takes it, and allows himself to be lifted shakily to his feet. Spock looks slightly steadier now that he’s had a rest and a warm American to hold onto, and the two agents only need to exchange a brief look before they take off running, side by side.

Kirk knows that if he has had any success at all of selling his cover identity to Marla Singh, then the one person she might expect to break into her private vault would be the high-class thief exhibiting his skills to her only hours earlier. Marla knows which hotel Kirk is staying at, and knows how to find him if she wants to. Kirk isn’t going to take any chances that she will come looking, only to find him not at home, still coming back from breaking into her factory.

Spock seems to have worked his way to a similar conclusion.

“You should proceed without me,” he pants. “I am still recovering and I know you can run faster than this. At the moment, I cannot.”

Kirk knows that Spock is right, but he continues to keep pace with the Russian, expression grim as he eyes the unsteady line of Spock’s body next to him.

“And what do you plan to do if someone catches up? Do you even still have your gun?”

Spock’s distant expression and lack of an answer is enough, and Kirk shakes his head as he continues.

“If you happen to show up at the same time Marla does, looking like you do, she’ll have her men shoot you on the spot.”

Kirk generously decides not to point out Spock’s strange lack of concern for his own safety, stealing glances at the sharp profile Spock’s face casts in the pale moonlight. The Russian drops the subject, despite his obvious irritation, and Kirk wisely decides not to push it as he continues to keep pace with his slightly slower partner.

As he and Spock finally make it to the hotel, they enter through one of the back exits. Kirk aims for the lobby, planning to separate so they won’t be seen together. He’ll take the main stairs, leaving the emergency ones, and more time, for Spock. A heavy hand drops on his shoulder instead, jerking him backwards. Kirk nearly stumbles, momentum still trying to propel him forwards even as he’s yanked back against Spock’s chest instead, like a dog on a leash.

The Russian steadies Kirk and points into the lobby, where Marla Singh stands at the reception desk by the stairs, her back to them as she no doubt interrogates the receptionist for Kirk’s room number. The American agent feels the color drain out of his face, and he paws at Spock with numb fingers to drag the other man down a corridor, out of sight. They can both take the emergency stairs.

They finally make it up to their floor, both panting with the effort of the climb. Spock’s dark hair is clumped on his forehead with sweat and drying sea water, and Kirk’s boots squeak where water still sloshes around his toes. They’ve both experienced better evenings, but Kirk’s heart is pounding in his chest, and for one brief moment of panic, Kirk formulates a plan as he runs ahead of Spock to unlock his door.

Just as Spock is about to jog past Kirk’s room to get back to his own, Kirk reaches out and snags him, dragging the taller man through the doorway and slamming the door behind him. Spock is so startled he doesn’t even struggle, but he downright freezes when Kirk begins to frantically undress himself, immobile as a statue with eyes as wide as Kirk’s ever seen them. Kirk doesn’t have time to admire the view.

“Spock,” he breathes, struggling to untangle himself from the sopping long-sleeve shirt currently wrapped around his head. “Do you speak Italian?”

Kirk’s wet shirt hits the floor with a heavy splat as he tosses it into a dark corner, fumbling for the fly of his pants next. Kirk glances up to see Spock pale as a sheet, except for the furiously burning tips of his ears. The Russian looks like he’s about to have a heart attack.

Kirk continues stripping and nearly falls over as he tries to extricate his legs from the clinging pants, hopping wildly on one foot at a time and not caring if he’s making a fool out of himself. Finally, Spock speaks, voice sounding a little lower and croakier than Kirk is used to.

“To what end could this matter possibly be relevant?” he asks, deadpan, as he takes in the sight of a nearly nude Kirk, brown eyes scanning up and down with an expression approaching awed disbelief. Kirk makes a frustrated noise and starts to peel off his socks.

“I— Yes. Of course I speak Italian,” Spock finally relents, just as Kirk manages to rid himself of his last sock so that he’s standing in only his underwear, breathless and freezing while Spock looks at him like he’s just touched down from Mars.

Kirk nods and darts away for a second to grab his bathrobe, quickly wrapping it around himself and tying the sash in a haphazard twist, just as a knock sounds against the door. Kirk curses quietly before looking over his shoulder, making himself sound as breathless as possible when he calls, “coming!”

Spock immediately tenses, looking like he’s ready to argue when Kirk walks right up to him and starts herding the Russian towards the bed. It’s a testament to how startled Spock is that he doesn’t fight it when Kirk jerks him out of his jacket and manhandles him out of his soggy sweater, continuing to maneuver Spock until the backs of his knees hit the mattress and he stumbles onto it.

“In exactly one minute, I need you to ask me to come back to bed in the deepest voice you can muster, and I need you to make it sound like you mean it,” he whispers frantically, shoving a bare-torsoed Spock under the covers. Spock’s eyes are as wide as saucers where he sits rigid and hardly daring to breathe, while Kirk’s hands smooth over his toned shoulders and quickly muss his hair. It’s unlikely that Spock will be spotted, but if he is, Kirk needs him to look the part. It also doesn’t hurt that everywhere he touches, Spock is so soft under his fingertips.

Before he can get too distracted, Kirk breaks away and jogs over to the door, opening it with most pleasantly dazed expression he can summon up. Marla blinks at him from out in the hallway, eyes raking over Kirk’s hastily tied bathrobe and bare feet.

“I hope I am not bothering you, Mister Jameson…” she purrs, stepping in closer expectantly, as she waits for Kirk to let her in. Blinking owlishly, Kirk chuckles and doesn’t budge an inch.

“Oh, Marla! I, uh, wasn’t expecting you,” he fumbles, pushing absently at this robe as if to tug it tighter over his bare chest. Marla’s eyes follow the action before she looks up at Kirk again with a predatory smile.

“Was there something I could help you with?” Kirk asks, allowing himself to sound a little put-out. “I was under the impression that our meeting wasn’t until tomorrow morning.”

Marla hums noncommittally and reaches out to trace her fingertips over the dip of Kirk’s collarbone.

“I thought perhaps we might… engage in an additional consultation.”

Kirk swallows, roughly exaggerating the movement as he opens his mouth again to speak, when a shuffle of blankets from the other room interrupts him. Marla’s gaze instantly snaps up to search the murky darkness over Kirk’s shoulder.

“_Come back to bed, beloved_,” Spock croons, Italian flawless as he delivers in a voice that has Kirk suddenly weak at the knees. If he’d thought Spock had a bedroom voice before, boy, had Kirk been wrong.

Marla straightens up as if she’s been slapped, mouth falling open into a small circle.

“Oh… I see,” she intones, and Kirk doesn’t even have to fake the blush that creeps onto his fair features, not when Spock had sounded like _that_.

“I hope you understand,” Kirk half-begs, fixing Marla with his best set of puppy dog eyes as he offers her a regretful smile. “It’s just… I would appreciate it, if this could remain between us.”

Marla’s gaze is sharp and assessing when she looks at Kirk again, studying him as if he’s suddenly been cast into a new light. Her lips curl faintly at the corners, in what could be either a flirtatious smile or a sneer. She takes a small step back, and Kirk’s heart won’t stop thudding against his ribs.

“Of course, Mister Jameson. But I do hope you won’t be late in the morning. We still have some very… delicate matters to discuss.”

Kirk nods in earnest and presses a sweaty palm into the loose fabric of his robe.

“You’ll have me at my best,” he vows, watching on pins and needles as Marla turns and stalks down the empty corridor and out of sight.

When Kirk finally shuts the door and immediately turns around to rest his back against it, he is met with the sight of Spock sitting upright in his bed in the gloom, expression unreadable. Kirk is suddenly struck by how breathtakingly beautiful Spock is, cast only in the pale glimmer of the streetlamp, looking utterly disheveled with Kirk’s loose sheets pillowed around his narrow hips.

“This does not bother you?”

Kirk blinks distractedly and tries not to think about how nice Spock’s voice is, even now that he’s not wielding it as the apparent hidden weapon that it is.

“What? Does what bother me?”

“That she would… think of you in this way?” Spock asks, not moving when Kirk pushes off from the door to wander over to the bed.

“That she thinks I’m sleeping with a man?” Kirk asks, slightly incredulous as he wonders how he came to be having this conversation.

Spock nods, and Kirk sits down heavily in one of the nearby chairs, feeling his body ache from the series of rough landings he’d gone through tonight. He subconsciously allows himself to relax, dropping his carefully maintained persona to momentarily bare himself before Spock. Right now, it feels like Spock is just Spock, and Kirk is Kirk, without the buffer of their professional roles standing between them. Regardless of how impossible it feels.

“No, Spock. It doesn’t bother me. I’d be a bit of a hypocrite if it did,” he admits, words slipping out without thought to how the Russian might take such a revelation. Before he can open his mouth to dig himself a deeper grave, head already spinning with witty comebacks and the fastest way to make a lewd joke, Spock pushes back the covers and rises.

“That is most fortunate,” the Russian murmurs, so quietly Kirk wonders if he was meant to hear it. Spock moves past Kirk to gather the clothes they’d thrown so carelessly onto the floor, not meeting his eyes. There’s no way Kirk is reading this the way he’s supposed to be reading it. Is there? Spock didn’t mean that. He can’t.

Head spinning, Kirk jumps up just in time to snatch Spock’s sweater, nearly plucking it out of the Russian’s grasp as they both reach for it at the same time.

“You should stay,” he blurts out, holding the sweater hostage as he straightens to meet Spock’s narrowed, calculating eyes in the dark. Neither of them have bothered to turn on any lights, and it leaves Kirk feeling strangely close to the man before him.

“I mean,” Kirk continues, casting for excuses when Spock only watches him in silence. “Remember Nyota? You go back to your room dressed in the things you just took off, you’d _look_ like you just came from snooping around. Plus, they’re still soaking wet. Dead giveaway you’ve been up to no good. The less she knows about our side of the mission, the better, right? The less she can tell anyone, if she gets captured.”

Spock raises an eyebrow, and Kirk sighs before biting idly at his lip, the dimness of the room not doing anything to hide the way Spock’s eyes stare at where Kirk catches it between his teeth.

“Come on, Spock. Let me help.”

“I do not require your assistance.”

“Yeah, but you do. Come on. I’ll let you warm up and borrow a change of clothes.”

Spock presses his lips into a thin line, but doesn’t protest when Kirk steps away to gather some clothes with a grin.

“There are towels in the bathroom, and I think these’ll fit you well enough,” Kirk explains, handing Spock a white linen button-down and silk pajama pants. “Go on, get warmed up and make yourself at home,” he adds, nudging Spock with a gentle elbow.

The Russian watches him with appraising eyes for a long moment before accepting the clothing with gentle hands. He looks absurd, shirtless with his heavy-duty combat trousers and boots still on, the holster at his hip decidedly empty. The sight makes Kirk’s mouth a little dry.

“This is unnecessary,” Spock protests, rubbing his thumb over the material of the pajamas, looking thoughtful. His hands are shaking faintly, like he’s still cold, and Kirk feels his stomach do a funny little flop.

“I’m not taking any chances. Now, go on,” he orders, tone friendly but firm.

Spock sniffs quietly in reply and nods before making his way into the bathroom, expression slightly wary even as he gives in to Kirk’s insistence.

The Russian locks the bathroom door behind him with a tiny click, and Kirk physically chokes on the unexpected laugh that bubbles up out of his chest at what has to be Spock’s version of a joke. He’d seen Kirk’s lock breaking skills exhibited on top of the line security twice in one night, and had to know a pathetic hotel thumb-turn lock would only keep him out for about two seconds tops, if Kirk really wanted in. The thought makes Kirk smile and shake his head, feeling surprisingly fond.

While Spock shuffles around in the bathroom, Kirk turns on a small lamp and calls for room service. To his surprise, the sound of Kirk’s shower starts up a few seconds later, announcing that Spock really is making himself at home. Kirk settles down on his couch and tries not to think too hard about the events of today, or the fact that he currently has a very naked Spock in his shower.

Since the other agent seems to be taking his sweet time, and the kitchens aren’t too busy this time of night, a light knock from room service comes before Spock is finished. Kirk bounds over to the door to admit a woman who wheels in a small cart, delivering the food. He thanks her and shoos her out before carrying the tray over to his coffee table by the couch.

When Spock comes out of the bathroom, water droplets still clinging to his hair and beaded along his pale throat, with the American’s shirt only halfway buttoned up, Kirk’s breath catches in his chest. Spock’s deft fingers pause at the buttons for a brief moment as he takes in the tray and the bowls, and Kirk starts talking before he can make an idiot of himself by getting caught staring.

“I know you’d probably rather have borsch, but I don’t think I could quite get away with making a request for purple soup from the kitchens.”

Spock shakes his head and continues to work at the buttons while he settles beside Kirk at the opposite end of the couch. The Russian leaves the last few buttons at the top of the shirt enticingly open. While Spock is taller, Kirk is broader, and the garment billows loosely over Spock’s lithe frame.

“This is perfectly acceptable, however unnecessary,” Spock hedges, although Kirk thinks he doesn’t look too happy about eating over the low coffee table. “Thank you, Agent Kirk.”

Kirk flinches at the formal address and gives Spock a funny look from across the single cushion between them.

“Please, Spock. You’re wearing my clothes. I think you can call me Jim.”

Spock’s cheeks take on the slightest hint of color, and Kirk feels his stomach flip in response.

“Very well,” he murmurs. “Thank you, Jim.”

And really, there’s not much else Kirk can say to that, so he shuts up and eats his soup.

Spock seems to understand Kirk is in an unusual mood, or maybe he’s in one himself, and lets the American sit in silence for a while as they eat. Kirk isn’t sure how to feel about the fact that now that they’re dry, he had made an effort to keep Spock from leaving solely for the comfort of his presence. Kirk is also not sure how to feel about the fact that Spock is allowing it, as if he appreciates the company too. But even after their impromptu mission and their first few moments of real teamwork, not to mention Kirk saving Spock from a watery grave, they’re still two very different men. They’re partners, but only barely, together by temporary truce. Kirk can’t afford the mistake of getting attached to Spock. He’s already done too much, dragging him out of the marina for a resurrection.

“I have a meeting with Marla in the morning,” Kirk confides, aware that his statement is redundant. Spock knows their plans, but Kirk is nervous, and he finds himself wringing his hands together in his lap now that he’s finished with his meal.

Expression surprisingly gentle, Spock sets down his own nearly empty bowl to regard Kirk with unreadable eyes.

“You are certain that after the events of this evening, your cover remains convincing?”

A small, humorless laugh escapes Kirk as he shakes his head.

“You saw, Spock. Tell me that was reassuring.”

Spock regards him silently for a moment before reaching out to rest his hand on Kirk’s forearm.

“Regardless of Marla’s own convictions, I have no doubt that you will find a way to shift the situation in your favor. You continue to exhibit exceptional adaptability.”

Kirk is so startled by the genuine sentiment in the compliment that he doesn’t speak for several more minutes, eyes in his lap. His arm feels cold when Spock eventually pulls his hand away, shattering the companionable moment. The Russian rises to go, looking surprisingly reluctant as he begins the process of gathering his wet clothes and tugging on his boots by the door. Knowing he has no more excuses to keep Spock, Kirk rises with him, crossing his arms over his chest as he waits to let the agent out when another worry comes to mind.

“What about Nyota? We’re just gonna let her go with Uncle Rudi tomorrow? I might be fine, Spock, but what if something happens to her?”

Spock’s features take on an unhappy frown that makes Kirk want to reach out and smudge away the creases at the corners of his lips and the center of his forehead.

“I believe that we do not have a choice in the matter.”

Kirk sighs and throws his hands up in the air before letting them flop back down at his sides.

“I guess you’re right. I just sort of have this… gut feeling.”

Spock’s gaze lingers on Kirk’s for a pregnant moment, and for a minute, Kirk thinks the Russian is about to say something comforting, or maybe reach out to touch him again, hands so gentle like they had been just before. When neither comes, Kirk shrugs and opens the door for Spock to hide his disappointment.

“Ah, what am I saying. Don’t worry about it, alright? I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Spock seems reluctant to step into the hallway, but once he is past the threshold, he leaves Kirk with one last, lingering look, the depth of his eyes unfathomable as they trace quickly over the American’s features.

“Goodnight, Jim,” Spock whispers, and Kirk finds himself too bewildered to respond as Spock disappears down the hallway, fading into the shadows as if he is one of them.

With butterflies in his stomach and a tight feeling in his chest, Kirk closes the door and heads to his shower, unsure of what to make of his conflicting feelings for the first time in his life.

As he gets ready for bed, Kirk thinks of the agreement he and Spock had made outside of the factory earlier, to forget about tonight’s events in the morning. He cannot help but wonder if Spock will exclude the latter part of the evening from the deal, or if all of the strange, tentative companionship they’d forged will be as if it had never happened, when daylight comes.


	6. Into the Lair

Spock waits with Nyota inside of their hotel suite, futilely trying to focus on his current company as he watches the younger woman pace the perimeter of the room, fiddling with the bangles on her arm. He attempts, halfheartedly, to convince himself that his attention slipping to events of last night are not, as a whole, irrelevant. Kirk’s concerns about this leg of their mission, however, are not where his mind has seemed to find interest.

Instead, it keeps slipping to the reveal of Spock’s own misunderstanding, and Kirk’s unapologetic admittance that he and Spock share a certain attribute, to the disagreeal of their respective countries. Then there is the matter of Kirk’s unexpected kindness—the agent’s decision to rescue Spock from certain death in the marina, his refusal to abandon Spock in their return to the hotel, and the quiet moments of vulnerability between them shared over bowls of soup.

It is unlike Spock to allow his mind to roam like this, though to ignore it, he feels, would be a greater distraction. He cannot help but think to the genesis of his assumptions about Kirk’s motives regarding his actions towards Spock—the moment in the dress shop, where Kirk appeared delighted at having discovered another secret button of Spock’s to press. Yet now, in the framing of his current knowledge of Kirk’s own preferences, Spock can’t help but wonder if he was being mocked at all, or if Kirk’s desire to try him had simply been the American’s way of testing the waters.

Spock wonders if he had failed that particular test, beyond the hope of brokering any sort of truce, or second chance. But then again, perhaps his and Kirk’s dual baptism in the marina signaled the arrival of a rebirth for them both. New, more settled waters to be assessed under a different light, unhindered by Spock’s prejudices. Spock did not dare let himself hope. It did not do, to dwell on things that would only reveal themselves with time.

Nyota’s frantic glancing back and forth between Spock and towards Kirk’s room down the hall brings Spock’s mind back to their own suite, and his nervous partner, as they wait for her uncle’s impending arrival. He does, truly, need to focus. The anxieties Kirk had expressed regarding the plan for today’s operation resolutely recenter in Spock’s attention, despite his subconscious’s best efforts to suppress them. The American is right to have his concerns, as his scheduled meeting to discuss the less than lawful ways he can enhance the Singh art collection will leave him in a vulnerable position, should things go wrong. It is a necessary gamble that will, optimistically, lead them closer to the missile’s whereabouts, as Nyota’s lunch with Rudi makes a separate attempt at information gathering. Spock’s role is to remain behind, a backup should the worst come to pass.

It is a role he has no intention of fulfilling.

As Nyota turns near the wall to wander past him once more, Spock holds up a hand, catching her attention. Relief is visible in Nyota’s expression as she shifts her focus away from the day’s mission. Avoiding her uncle’s suspicions while posing questions about her father’s whereabouts will be no easy feat, though allowing herself to become consumed by worry will only compromise her performance and therefore her safety.

Nyota stares back at Spock expectantly, her muscles still tense where he can see them disappearing into the collar of her shirt, as he rises to his feet. His hand slips into his trouser pocket, drawing out a ring identical to the one that had been stolen along with Spock’s watch only two days ago.

Spock wordlessly deposits the piece of jewelry into Nyota’s open palm, mirroring the interaction of the first ring exchange. She blinks down at it, a small smile gracing her lips.

“Another ring, Spock?”

Spock nods and tucks his hands behind his back, watching with a small measure of fondness as Nyota slip the jewelry onto her finger.

“Indeed. As far as the world has been informed, you are still my fiancée. The prevalence of crime in this area should not prevent you from looking the part.”

Nyota’s head shakes slowly, her expression growing more amused as one corner of her mouth tugs up higher than the other.

“Did you pack extras of these?”

Spock tips his jaw up, willing to accept her teasing under the guise of misinterpreted praise.

“It was logical to prepare for such incidents.”

Nyota laughs quietly, settling into a corner of the couch, her shoulders relaxing as she admires the duplicate ring on her finger.

“Of course it is,” she agrees as Spock wanders towards the window, peering down at a sleek, black town car that has just pulled up to the front of the hotel. A flash of the familiar brown hair and glasses in the back seat causes Spock to frown with general disapproval.

“I believe that your uncle has arrived, Miss Nyota.”

Nyota springs up from her seat and quietly reaches down to flip on the audio transmitter which has been strapped discretely to her upper thigh, above the hem of her dress. It had been Nyota’s idea to record any conversations that took place between Rudi and herself, an assurance that the information would reach the rest of them should anything happen to her.

“Wish me luck, Spock,” Nyota calls, gathering her purse as she heads towards the door.

Spock watches her go, and thinks unwillingly of Kirk, who will be in just as much, if not significantly more danger than Nyota as he offers a quiet, “I am sure you will perform adequately.”

As soon as Nyota has stepped through the door, Spock immediately moves to gather his tracking equipment, packing with it the separate headset and remote recording device that had been linked to Nyota’s hidden microphone.

Duffle bag slung over his shoulder, Spock waits a brief moment, ensuring that Nyota is given enough of a lead, before exiting the room. He makes his way out of the hotel and walks for several blocks, until he reaches an unmarked van parked along the curb. Pulling the keys out of his pocket, Spock unlocks the door and slides into the driver’s seat, grateful for his handler’s suggestion that Spock have a vehicle at his disposal in the event that he required discreet transportation.

Spock assembles the tracking equipment in his lap, configuring it so that he can watch Nyota’s small marker on the display as he drives. Prioritizing Nyota and Rudi’s conversation over his own safety, he decides to compromise yet another one of his senses, putting on his headphones even as he pulls the van into traffic.

Grimly determined, Spock follows Rudi’s car at a subtle distance. It becomes obvious once the vehicle leaves the cobbled streets of Rome, aiming instead in the direction of the nearby countryside, that Nyota and her uncle’s destination is not going to simply be a restaurant for a casual meal together. Given the direction they are currently headed Spock quickly concludes that they are en route to the Singh estate itself, where they had gone only yesterday for the grand party. Spock is soon proven correct when Nyota’s marker finally halts at the familiar location.

Spock, approximately eight minutes behind Nyota and Rudi, speeds up the van to accelerate his arrival. He manages to make it six, quickly abandoning the vehicle at the edge of the property as he scopes the grounds for cameras and picks his way through the landscape. Once he is close enough, Spock parks the vehicle at the edge of the property, where it will be out of sight but not so far off that he will not be able to reach it in a timely manner if he is forced to make a hasty retreat. From there, Spock evades the significant security measures protecting the grounds with ease, and picks his way through the landscaping. Spock arrives at the main estate to see Nyota being lead to a table set for lunch in the courtyard with Rudi at her side, making note of the armed security personnel standing by.

Taking cover on his stomach behind thick layers of shrubbery and well manicured trees, Spock lifts a pair of binoculars to his eyes and is finally able to determine why Rudi has chosen the Singh estate for his lunch with Nyota. Waiting for them is Khan Noonien Singh himself, seated regally at the head of the table. Despite his distance, Spock notes his own heart rate increasing in anticipation, knowing the inherent danger of being in close proximity to such a man. Spock adjusts his headphones as Nyota sits down, allowing Rudi to push in her chair for her before he seats himself.

Khan watches Nyota with a calculating smile and plucks a grape from the bunch on the table, pinching it idly between his fingers as he studies his guest.

“Hello, Miss Uhura. Your Uncle Rudi thinks we should have a little chat.”

Nyota’s expression hardens, having realized just as Spock has that the men have already seen through her initial pretense of merely wanting to reunite with her uncle. Spock watches the way her face adjusts to the realization, admiring the way her features remain calm as she slips on a new layer of confidence.

“I know my father is here, and that he works for you,” Nyota returns, transparent with her intentions now that the charade has been broken. Her voice is unsurprisingly strong in Spock’s ears, level despite the sudden turn of events.

“And how is that?” Khan replies, seemingly amused as he tosses the grape casually into his mouth.

“Simple. My fiancé is a KGB agent, and the American your wife has been entertaining is with the CIA. The Russians and Americans thought they were using me, but I was using them to get to you,” Nyota explains, lifting the hem of her skirt to reveal the transmitter.

Spock feels the breath leave his lungs in a solid whoosh, so loudly that he is irrationally concerned that he might have been heard from his distant hiding place.

“This is a tracking and audio transmission device,” Nyota continues, while Spock stares at her in wounded disbelief, shock numbing his system. “My fiancé is probably out there in the woods surrounding your property, watching us right now. I’m sure he can confirm everything I’ve said. If you can catch him.”

Spock clenches his teeth and begins furiously packing away his gear, seething at being given up so carelessly, so ruthlessly without fathomable reason. He thinks of Kirk, at the position this will leave him in, having no idea what has occurred. Spock tries to formulate a way in which to warn the American, knowing he has neither the time nor the means to do so.

“I think I need to make a telephone call,” Rudi announces, staring with narrowed eyes towards the plants in Spock’s direction, before he turns and excuses himself from the table.

“Perhaps you have come to us at a fortuitous time, Miss Uhura,” Khan muses, twirling a cheese knife between his fingers almost absently when Spock risks another glance. “Your father’s work ethic has been, as of late, somewhat lacking. Your presence may provide him with the necessary motivation.”

“You leave my father to me,” Nyota vows solemnly.

Spock barely hears her over the baying of dogs in the distance, growing louder as he shoves his headset into his bag and rises to flees from the attack that Nyota has had her hand in unleashing upon him. Spock takes off running, repressing the illogical burn of guilt at leaving Nyota to the whim of these men, despite the sting of her betrayal. He hopes, under a blanket of anger, that whatever she is trying to achieve is worth what she will most likely end up paying. He sprints towards his van, knowing it is up to him to get Agent Kirk out of the trap he has just directly walked into.

—————

“Madame Singh will be with you shortly. She would like it if you made yourself comfortable,” the receptionist explains, leading Kirk into a wide, exquisitely lit office with a sitting area before a picturesque window that reveals a view of the shipping yard below. It’s a grand room, fit for the extravagance that seems woven into every aspect of Singh Shipping and Aeronautics. It’s only proper that Marla’s personal space in the main headquarters would be just as opulently designed.

Marla herself sits at a heavy marble desk, watching Kirk enter with calculating eyes as she temporarily ignores him, speaking to someone on the phone. He finds it odd, a poised business woman like herself taking a call when a meeting has been scheduled, but appearing casual overrides Kirk’s spark of apprehension. The agent files it away as a power play on her part, a devaluing of his time, to which his best available counter is utter indifference.

Kirk takes it all in with a nod, eyes making a full scan of the room before he smiles gratefully at the departing receptionist. After a few terse, vague words from which Kirk gains nothing, Marla hangs up the phone and leans back in her chair to watch him, mild amusement in her eyes.

“Help yourself to a drink,” she advises, gesturing to a nearby liquor cabinet, expensive crystal decanters resting on a polished surface. Feeling tense with anticipation, Kirk hums and politely pours himself a glass of scotch while Marla rises.

“Thank you,” he chirps, head tilting as he finds a photograph on the wall to inspect, all to avoid having to look Marla in the eye just yet. He knows she feels most comfortable behind the purposefully intimidatingly designed desk, and Kirk wants to lure her out to the open, where they will be on a more even footing.

A main part of Kirk’s training is to pick out irregularities, finding inconsistencies within a space that ordinary men might miss. This picture, it’s old, yellowed and worn at the edges, in striking to rest of the room, which screams of immaculate newness. Kirk stares at the subject of the photograph, a man he’d wager to be Sergio Singh, Khan’s father, stands on a dock near the prow of a fishing boat, gesturing proudly to the name painted onto the hull, _Botany Bay_. It sounds, and looks, familiar, though it takes Kirk a minute to draw the connection to the model ship he had seen at the party yesterday while dodging the nosy security guard.

Marla lets the silence stretch for a moment, watching silently until Kirk takes a sip of his scotch.

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” she apologizes, seeming to realize Kirk is unwilling to come to her, and finally makes her way around the desk. Kirk holds in any outward expressions of pleasure at his success, suppressing his reaction as Marla saunters towards him, partaking in another sip of scotch for the sake of his nerves. Kirk’s stomach pinches with increasing anxiety, desperately trying to figure out what exactly about this situation feels so off, when he suddenly begins to feel slightly dizzy.

“You don’t look like you slept much last night, Mister Jameson.”

Kirk’s face twitches, a remnant of the grimace he tries to stifle as Marla comes to stand at his back, trailing a light hand over the soft hair at the nape of his neck. Attempting to steel himself, Kirk takes another sip, and for the first time realizes that his exaggerated reactions to Marla’s proximity may not be the result of his personal discomfort. Something else is deeply wrong.

“Funny you should say that, Madame Singh,” Kirk coughs, looking down at his tumbler with pained eyes. “I don’t think this scotch is helping either.”

Kirk turns around to slide delicately out from between Marla and the photo, though not before settling his glass in the open hands of a nearby sculpture with decided irreverence. The agent turns to peer out of the enormous window overlooking the marina he had dragged Spock’s limp body out of just hours ago. Quiet rage flashes through Kirk’s chest, making him feel hot in a way that has nothing to do with what he’d just put in his mouth.

“If I were a suspicious man, Marla, I would say you put something in my drink.”

“It’s much easier to trust a drink you fixed yourself,” she agrees, a predatory tone in her voice.  
Kirk shakes his head and moves away from the window to stand on the plush rug that’s laid out in front of the couch.

“How did you know I was going to drink the scotch?”

“I didn’t. I laced all the drinks,” Marla explains, sounding quietly giddy and reminding Kirk of a particularly vicious child with a bug trapped in a jar. “I don’t like to leave much to chance… Mister Kirk.”

Kirk feels too woozy now to feign a reaction at the sound of his name, merely sighing at the confirmation that Marla has somehow connected the dots to his true identity. The American nods as he flashes her an apologetic smile, exhibiting the confidence of someone who feels that they have the upper hand much easier than someone who is flying on red alert should be able to. If there’s ever been a chance to get information out of Marla, this is probably the one, though whether or not he’ll be in any shape to pass that intel along is probably now out of the sphere of Kirk’s control.

“I thought I was doing so well.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You were doing fantastically,” Marla hums. “The fault doesn’t lie in your performance. However, you couldn’t control the loyalty of dear Nyota. She gave you up like an unwanted kitten.”

Kirk is too far gone for the information of Nyota’s betrayal to hit him like it should. Instead, he only feels mildly puzzled, and quietly pleased that from the sound of things, Marla might not know about Spock.

“Really?” Kirk asks. “Nyota seemed so innocent. I liked her.”

“You’re not the first man to have fallen for the charms of a pretty, young woman…” Marla begins, pausing when she notices Kirk abruptly fold at the knees, making to settle on the rug as he grabs a pillow from the couch.

“What are you doing, Kirk?” Marla asks, sounding almost offended that he is giving such little attention to her obviously planned speech.

“Oh, I’ve been here before,” Kirk explains, moving to lie on his back with the pillow under his head, a jaunty grin on his lips. “Last time, I fell and hit my head. I’m not too eager to repeat that.”

Marla seems to recover quickly, wandering over to observe Kirk in his newest pose.

“Oh… well, I’m afraid this isn’t going to stop you from getting hurt,” she croons.

Kirk gives a noncommittal grunt, the world beginning to spin and his vision fading. He barely manages to lie down before the feeling starts to go from his limbs. Kirk has a moment to be mildly amused that his mouth seems to be the last part of him that’s working. Considering that he’s always been known for talking too much, this seems only fitting.

Marla’s voice filters in through the unpleasant din that has begun to fill his ears.

“Sleep well, James,” she whispers, false sweetness in her tone.

Kirk feels his nose scrunch up, his head failing to shake upon his request.

“Only m’ ma calls me James,” he slurs, feeling sleepy now.

Marla gives a noncommittal hum, and then her voice comes to Kirk’s ears distorted and warped, like that of a demonic creature from a particularly bad dream.

“Mummy says hello.”

Kirk fades out of consciousness too quickly to reply, silence finally claiming him.

—————

When he awakes, Kirk is strapped to a chair by all points of contact imaginable, including his head, where electrodes rest over his temples. He appears to be underground in some sort of bunker, and even with his limited range of movement, Kirk can see odd bits of machinery and medical equipment scattered around in his peripheral. His jacket has been tossed unceremoniously over a table, and Kirk’s shirt has been opened, wires crossing over the bare skin of his chest and down into his sleeves to wrap around both wrists. Directly in front of him is Marla, happily sipping from a glass as she leans on a dark, wooden desk. Kirk isn’t sure what he had been expecting, but Marla, pristine in her white dress and relaxing with a drink in what is so obviously a torture chamber was not it.

“You may have heard of the Dark Angel of Ravensburg, the Butcher of Belsen, the Fifth Horseman, Doctor of the Apocalypse...” she begins grandly, her voice still slightly fuzzy as Kirk’s system continues to work through the effects of whatever he’s been drugged with. “What history has failed to relate is that this was not four individuals, but the tireless work of a single artist. And today, you have the privilege of experiencing his work firsthand.”

“Hello, Mister Kirk,” Uncle Rudi calls, appearing from somewhere behind Kirk’s chair to greet him. The man steps forward, a manic glint in his eye, and presses his foot eagerly to a pedal.

Kirk’s head is still full of static, so it’s possible he’s been reading the situation incorrectly, but even he could tell from the way his captors still, unsubtly eyeing each other, that something was supposed to happen that decidedly hasn’t. Kirk isn’t dumb enough to breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that surely, he won’t be safe for long.

“My apologies,” Rudi offers to Marla, looking disgruntled. “There is a short in the wiring. I thought I’d located it.”

Rudi scuttles away to attend a mess of wires, Kirk watching with increasing dread as the man moves things around. He flips a breaker, and at once, Kirk’s brain is lit up with fierce, overwhelming agony.

Every nerve in his body is inundated with the sensation of being on fire, trying to burn themselves out of Kirk’s skin as his entire body shakes with uncontrollable convulsions. It feels like the entire scope of the cosmos are igniting behind Kirk’s eyes, expanding the inside of his skull, breaking him, ripping pieces away until there is nothing left but pain.

“We have contact!” Marla crows, gleefully rising to watch him quake.

Kirk has just begun to wonder if this is what it feels like to die, his vision on the cusp of whitening out, when suddenly, everything stops.

“My apologies,” Rudi pants, apparently having adjusted for his overcorrection. He wanders over to Kirk in time to see the woozy agent spit a mouthful of blood onto the ground, from where he’d accidentally bitten his tongue. Kirk’s chest is heaving with the effort of drawing breath and his muscles feel like jelly, but he has enough fight left in him to turn his eyes on Rudi for the most potent glare he can manage. For the briefest of seconds, the German almost looks apprehensive. Rudi breaks eye contact and offers Marla an apologetic glance.

“Won’t happen again,” he promises. “I have control of the machine now. I will not let him die before you have your answers.”

Marla watches Rudi with a flat expression, as if daring him to slip up again. Rudi swallows roughly, and seemingly satisfied, Marla strolls over to Kirk where he’s still strapped to the electric chair.

She leans over, her face moving in close to Kirk’s, lips almost brushing his in a mockery of what had nearly occurred the first day they met. It’s a ghost of a touch, but the memories come crashing down on Kirk, agitating his already fragile state of mind. He doesn’t want Marla to be the last person who touches him like this.

Kirk is trapped, unable to so much as angle his head away, when Marla leans in, closing the space between them to press her mouth against his own. His eyes slam shut, lips tense under her assault, as he tries to imagine himself nearly anywhere else, with anyone else. Desperately, Kirk casts his mind away to the softness of Spock’s turtleneck against his cheek and the rapid beating of the Russian’s heart in his ear, drowning out Marla’s touch. The imagined sensations are still pounding inside of him when Marla finally draws away, resonating with the agent even as she begins to speak again.

“So sorry I can’t stay to finish you off myself. Rudi’s never in a rush, but sadly, I am. And I want this to be slow. Don’t worry. I’ll send your regard to Nyota,” Marla croons, leaning down once more to press an almost sweet kiss to Kirk’s sweaty cheek.

The American grits his teeth, refusing to so much as follow the path of her exit with his eyes as Marla abandons him with Rudi. The older man sits down at the desk and reaches up to pull the switch of a bare lightbulb that hangs from a long chain, tossing it away so it circles above Kirk in slow arcs. The room is thrown into sharp relief as the light swings, casting long, morphing shadows over the walls everywhere he can see.

The American tugs weakly at his restraints and for the first time in his life, begins to wonder if there isn’t a way out of this miserable situation. He has never believed in no-win scenarios, but alone, with his body restrained as it is and with the current state of his mental faculties, it seems there is little hope.

When Rudi pulls out a photo album and begins to flip through the pages, clearly gearing up for a monologue, Kirk has enough bitter humor left in him to be grateful that his brains still feel like they’re melting out of his ears, so he doesn’t really have to focus on what the older man is saying--probably couldn’t, even if he wanted to.

“Once upon a time, there was a little boy,” Rudi begins, while Kirk focuses instead on the taste of iron in his mouth, attempting to stay grounded. “He was neither tall nor handsome, charismatic or amusing. In fact, he appeared to be exceedingly dull. Because of this boy’s apparent shortcomings, he was bullied mercilessly and relentlessly by the other children. Year merged with miserable year as life continued to be a living hell. But what the other boys didn’t understand about their victim was that he didn’t see them as enemies. He saw them as instruments of learning. A priceless lesson was gleaned from his tormentors. Man only has two masters in this world. Their names are Pain and Fear. The boy found he had quite a talent for eliciting these feelings in others. So on the principle of playing to his strengths, the boy decided to make their cultivation his life’s work. Fortunately for this boy, history gave him an unprecedented opportunity: A world war. The canvas, Mister Kirk, on which he would produce his greatest work.”

Kirk thinks about spitting back something about being unimpressed by Rudi’s pathetic attempt at intimidation, but then the man turns the album in his hands, facing it towards Kirk so he can see the photographs within. Even from this distance, Kirk can make out the mutilated bodies of men and women laid out on tables like butchered animals, their forms twisted nearly beyond recognition. He feels sick to his stomach, and in his currently scrambled state, Kirk is almost worried he might lose his lunch.

“You will go here, Mister Kirk,” Rudi continues, stroking a blank page in the album with fond fingers. “A whole page just for you.”

He closes the book gently, but with a sense of finality. Kirk swallows the blood in his mouth and watches with wide eyes as his tormentor sets down the album with a sense of reverence before rising to stand. Rudi wanders back over to the pedal on the floor and stills with hovering toes, eyes boring into Kirk with manic intent.

“Ready?”

Kirk doesn’t have time to answer before Rudi’s foot presses down on the pedal and pain floods him again, hot and blinding while colors that Kirk can feel more than see flash behind his eyelids, heart feeling as if it is trying to burst from his chest. He loses count of how many times the electricity is activated, each time more agonizing than the previous one, until every second Kirk draws breath, he is convinced it will be the last. He never manages to pass out, he’s not that lucky.

Rudi doesn’t even interrogate him, just holds down the pedal and watches Kirk scream until his throat is raw. As he begins to feel as if there is nothing left inside the man called Kirk, he wonders how he will fare when the questioning inevitably begins.

The American has no way of knowing how much time passes between the rounds of electricity being shot through his brain. It could be seconds. Months. Years. Eternities. But when Rudi stops for another pointless lecture after Kirk’s latest date with death, giving him enough time to partially recover if only for the sake of having a captive audience, something is different.

Over his torturer’s shoulder, Kirk has a clear view of the small window built into the door behind where Rudi is standing, through which he can see a security guard positioned at attention. His eyesight is a little blurry, and Kirk is still partially convinced that he can smell colors, but he’s most certainly convinced he didn’t just hallucinate the guard crumpling to the ground after a certain hand landed on his shoulder, applying what looked suspiciously like a KGB neck pinch.

Kirk is nearly ready to accept his theory on the whole thing just being an illusion when, having stepped into the line of sight just vacated by the guard, stands Spock. Now, Kirk is absolutely certain he is hallucinating. The Russian is backlit by the harsh hall light like some sort of avenging angel, expression so fierce that Kirk is surprised it hasn’t cracked the glass. Spock disappears just as quickly, and Kirk is left to the misery of Rudi’s current musings, utterly sure that he is seeing things. At least he won’t be dying without a friend, even if it is only a dream.

“There are two kinds of torture, Mister Kirk,” Rudi continues, coming to the end of his newest monologue. “One is the extraction of information. The other, is torture for its own sake.”

His beady eyes tighten with anticipation, and Kirk is too weak to protest when the man’s foot presses down on the pedal once more. The American flinches, a whine escaping him as he waits for pain that doesn’t come. God, he’s like one of Pavlov’s dogs; Rudi does’t even have to hurt him for the torture to be effective. There are hot tears filling Kirk’s eyes now as he squeezes them closed, blinking rapidly at the sight of Spock in the window when he opens them again. The Russian holds his gaze, reassurance living under a blanket of fury as he presses a finger to his lips. Kirk’s breath snags in his chest.

Rudi, oblivious, sighs and shakes his head as he begins to look for the source of the problem with his wiring. Spock opens the door soundlessly, and slips into the room. Relief hits Kirk like a freight train, as his weary brain suddenly decides that he actually isn’t seeing things, and that Spock is real. Exhaustion wins over shock, settling like a stone around Kirk’s neck as he closes his eyes. Spock is here. He’s going to be okay.

“I must admit this equipment failure does get frustrating,” Rudi begins again. “Fortunately, I’m in an old-fashioned mood. I think we’ll start with the pliers.”

Kirk opens his eyes again to stare hazily at the ceiling, watching Spock continue to creep forward in his periphery.

“I never thought I’d say this,” the American lies. “But I’m actually very happy to see you.”

Spock crosses his arms over his chest and fixes Kirk with a dark look that makes the American grin like an absolute lunatic, not caring anymore if he seems to have lost his mind. Blood trickles from his nose into his mouth, warm and sticky, but Kirk can hardly taste it for all of the blood that’s still oozing from the inside of his cheek across his tongue.

Suddenly catching on to the fact that they are not alone, Rudi whips around in confusion, only to come face to face with Spock, who stands no more than a foot away from him. The German stumbles backwards in his shocked haste, nearly tripping over the wiring sprawled across the filthy floor.

Kirk closes his eyes once again, too tired to keep them open. There is the unmistakable sound of a fist colliding with a face, and a heavy body hitting the ground with nothing to ease its fall. Kirk hacks out a bitter laugh, tasting blood on his teeth when he smiles again.

Spock arrives at the side of Kirk’s chair, announced by nothing other than a displacement of air across the American’s face.

“Jim,” Spock begins, as Kirk feels fingers start to tug frantically at his restraints. “You must remain lucid, Jim. We do not know the extent of the damage. You must remain awake.” The Russian’s frantic undertones slowly overtake the measured calm of his voice as he begs. “Concentrate, Jim, please.”

Kirk barely has enough time to feel the cool press of Spock’s fingers against his cheek before he promptly loses consciousness.

—————

When Kirk wakes up the next time, it happens rather slowly. The first thing he’s aware of is the smell of citrus scented hotel-shampoo, and the soft drum of a heartbeat beneath his ear. Kirk twitches, agonized muscles protesting violently now that he’s conscious again. The motion makes Kirk aware that he is being cradled against the softest wool his skin has ever felt, and Spock’s fingers are running through his hair as his face presses further into the sweater below his cheek.

“I thought I found all your trackers,” Kirk mumbles into Spock’s chest, words slurred in his persistent delirium. The fingers stop their gentle motions at his scalp, and Kirk not so quietly mourns the loss with a small whine.

“Your attempt to locate them was admirable,” Spock begins, sounding almost proud. “However, you neglected to discover the ones that I had planted inside of your shoes.”

Kirk blinks blearily up at his savior, squinting a little at the harsh light in his sensitive eyes. Spock’s usually hard face is soft with worry, and Kirk almost forgets to breathe when the Russian reaches out one last time to brush a sweaty strand of hair away from his forehead. Where their skin touches, he feels how badly Spock’s hands are shaking. His face feels clean, the blood and sweat wiped away.

When Spock’s gaze slides down to meet Kirk’s, something subtle passes over his features, and then something else shifts, and it’s like watching a wall come down behind the other man’s eyes, emotions tucked away. The quiet moment between them is gone just as quickly, leaving Kirk struggling not to feel hurt when Spock leans back and helps him to stand. He also tries not to hope too hard that the blush on Spock’s cheeks is for him. They don’t have time for that now.

When he glances around to room to confirm their location is the same as when Kirk had lost consciousness, he is surprised to discover that Rudi has now taken Kirk’s place in the electric chair. Spock stands stiffly behind him as Kirk forces himself to draw a deep breath in and hold it a moment before exhaling to center himself. Carefully shuddering his expression, Kirk approaches Rudi with as much steadiness as his agonized muscles will allow, shoulders drawn back. The older man is pale and sweating with fear as Kirk inspects the tightly cinched restraints.

Spock follows Kirk, stepping closer to the chair and pressing so lightly on the connected pedal that it could have been an accident, arms folded with nonchalance.

Rudi screeches with pain as the electricity floods his body, so loudly that Kirk nearly misses his own accompanying screams. Spock’s foot jumps away from the peddle, staring at him with blatant panic, as Kirk’s face falls with ill hidden embarrassment. It had, of course, been involuntary--a reaction to the crackling noise Kirk now so clearly associates with the sensation of a thousand imaginary needles pricking deeply into every inch of his skin. He swallows around the fear he’s still trying to tell himself is irrational, but being this close to the chair, so recently freed from its horrors, Kirk has no choice but to admit how badly he’s compromised. When he turns to lock eyes with Spock, the Russian’s apologetic expression make obvious that he has already worked his way to a similar conclusion.

“Do you mind?” Kirk asks, voice still shaking, hands clammy at his sides. Spock continues to look concerned as he bows his head, quicking putting distance between himself and the pedal. The guilty look in the Russian’s eyes tells Kirk that the vengeful little electric jolt to Rudi’s system hadn’t exactly been an accident, but it also tells him that Spock hadn’t known what it would do to Kirk either. The American’s reflexive reaction had startled and distressed them both.

Rudi starts to babble excuses again, and despite the recent shock to his own system, Kirk is starting to see red.

“You don’t have to do things to me to make me talk,” Rudi begs, spit flying past his crooked, graying teeth. “Please, I’m a reasonable man. I’ll tell you everything I know. In fact, I’ll talk so much you won’t be able to stop me.”

Kirk feels a muscle twitch in his jaw, and without breaking eye contact with Rudi, he gives Spock a nod. The Russian’s foot lands on the pedal again, this time with significantly more intent. Rudi flinches and screams in pain as the chair comes to life, eyes rolling back as he jerks under the restraints. Kirk steels himself, watching Rudi’s pain with grim satisfaction even as his heart begins to pound again at the sight. Spock keeps his foot down, but something at the back of the chair makes an unhappy fizzling sound, and the electricity stops flowing.

Frowning, Kirk glances back to find Spock glaring down at the pedal with narrowed eyes. The Russian lifts his boot to stomp on it again, clearly confused when nothing happens.

“They have a glitch,” Kirk explains, voice hollow even to his own ears. Spock shifts at the edge of his vision, pressing hopefully just one more time before turning on his heel and disappearing to start rewiring the chair’s controls.

“If it is broken, I will fix it,” Spock vows darkly, and Kirk allows himself a faint smile. Spock had been able to shut down the electricity for the entire Singh Shipping Company’s headquarters without so much as breaking a sweat. Fixing Rudi’s rusty, jury-rigged chair should be a piece of cake.

Rudi must correctly translate the look of utter confidence on Kirk’s face, because he begins to thrash again and panic in earnest again, as shaken as he is from his recent round in the chair.

“Wait, please wait,” he begs frantically, sensing the approaching danger that usually comes along with Spock’s deadly competence. Kirk pauses for a moment, assessing the man before him with a calm he does not truly feel.

“Do you still have Doctor Uhura?” Kirk asks begrudgingly, not so hellbent on revenge that he would ignore the opportunity to interrogate a willing subject for vital information when the opportunity presented itself. Kirk might as well ask questions while Spock works. Rudi seems to relax despite his current predicament, as much as is possible when strapped at every mobile joint.

“Yes, yes, we have him still.”

“Has he succeeded in enriching the uranium?”

“We are far beyond that,” Rudi replies, looking like he wants to laugh. “There’s already a _bomb_. A nuclear warhead. The Reichsmarchall will take it for delivery tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. They’re sending a submarine. Between that time and now, it is being held on Singh Island, at the family’s private retreat.”

Kirk mulls over the information while Rudi continues to struggle uselessly in his bonds, and Spock rises from where he had been kneeling over a panel of breakers and wires, glitch apparently taken care of. Rudi’s distress twists his aged features, sweat pouring from his hairline at the sight of the approaching Russian, who still wears an expression that would terrify Kirk if he thought he may be on the receiving end of his plans.

“I’ll-I’ll appear in court,” Rudi protests. “I’ll inform on anyone. I don’t even need to know them. I’m yours to command.”

Kirk says nothing, letting Rudi spin his wheels before glancing up to meet Spock’s eyes. The two of them share a look before they simultaneously turn to walk out into the hallway, past the point of needing words to communicate. They close the door behind them in tacit agreement, standing where Rudi can’t hear them.

Spock’s face is softer again, intimidation slipping out of his expression now that they’re alone, leaving Kirk feeling stripped bare with the way the brown eyes trail over him. He wonders what the Russian is searching for, if he’s scanning Kirk for other visible injuries, or just proof that his partner is still actually standing before him.

“What should we do?” Kirk finds himself asking, nibbling his lip and wincing when he realizes he must have bitten that too, in one of his fits in the chair. Spock’s gaze lands heavily on Kirk’s mouth without a comment on the injury.

“We must get to the island and commandeer the warhead before it is transferred,” he replies, voice level but more distant than usual.

Kirk nods and looks away, hands curling into loose fists at his sides before releasing them.

“What should we do about _him_?” Kirk asks, unable to mask the bitterness in his tone as he gestures behind them to the torture chamber.

Spock dips his head and does not meet Kirk’s eyes. The American can sense the effort it must be taking for Spock to outwardly remain calm. Appearances aside, Kirk knows the Russian is no less rattled than he is.

“It is your decision to make, Jim. You are the one that he has been… toying with.” It looks as though revisiting the facts of Kirk’s torture and speaking of the events out loud costs Spock, whose jaw is tight and eyes flash with anger again. Kirk is surprisingly touched. Finally on the correct side of Spock’s controlled temper and no longer the ignition spark for it, Kirk can admit that it’s almost sweet.

Kirk glances down to see the pointer finger of Spock’s left hand tapping furiously against his thigh, and belatedly recognizes the Russian’s tell. The last time Kirk had seen this kind of warning display from Spock, the other man had snapped. Violently.

Without thinking, Kirk reaches out to take Spock’s hand, the pads of his fingers soothing over Spock’s knuckles. The little twitch stops immediately, and Kirk feels it when Spock sucks in a shocked breath.

Kirk bulldozes onward, unwilling to let the situation grow awkward, because he can tell if he lets the silence continue, Spock will flounder. Right now, that can’t happen. Kirk needs the comfort of contact as much as the man in front of him does, noting how Spock’s fingers go loose, allowing Kirk’s to slide between them with ease. The palm of Spock’s hand is as warm as the rest of him.

“So, on the one hand, we need Rudi. He’s a whole world of information that neither of our sides probably has access to,” Kirk confesses, voice tight. “On the other hand, I know exactly what’ll happen if this doesn’t end here and now, and we pass him along to our superiors. Rudi’ll strike a deal and struggle out of it. He’s prepared to sell his ass on this, and for that, they’ll give him his freedom. Or worse, they’ll offer him a job. A man with his set of skills is never wanting for employment.”

“What do you suggest we do?” Spock asks, surprisingly patient as he allows Kirk the dignity of his choice in the fate of his abuser. Kirk offers his partner a tentative smile and shakes his head. Spock’s hand has stilled in his own, removing Kirk’s justification for the contact, and though he finds himself overly reluctant to release it from his grasp, he does so with one final squeeze.

“Just give me a minute,” Kirk requests, letting his gaze drift over Spock’s form as they stand together in silence with their backs to the chamber.

The American takes the time to think, mulling over their options and attempting to ignore the way his skin still feels like it’s peeling away from his body. When Kirk glances up at Spock, decision made, he is struck once more by the rare vulnerability of the man’s features. His eyes seem to dance with some unnamed passion, emotions sparking between them as they take each other in. Spock’s pale, olive skin looks warmer in this light, the high bridge of his nose and the arcs of his cheekbones lit up like they’ve been cast in the glow of a vibrant sunset, or maybe the flickering warmth of a campfire. Spock’s intense expression slowly melts into a more bewildered one, eyes narrowing as he studies Kirk’s face with increased scrutiny. They lock eyes again, seeming to immediately come to the same conclusion, before their heads swivel in unison to look into the torture chamber.

Rudi, still strapped into his chair, is now thrashing and shaking more wildly than ever, in obvious anguish as the machine electrocutes him and the side of the contraption is quickly becoming engulfed in flames. The fire flicks over the man’s body, catching on the fabric of his clothes, soon to melt flesh from bone. The fire, Kirk reasons, would explain the romantic lighting.

“I guess that answers our question for us…” Kirk finds himself musing, wide eyes fixed on Rudi’s anguished form.

“I must have introduced a new glitch to the system,” Spock begins, his tone too wooden to achieve the innocence the man is aiming for. “An unfortunate mistake.”

It’s shocking how bad of a liar the Russian is considering his profession. Kirk grins despite himself as he privately admits that he might be a little bit in love with the ridiculous quirk. The way Spock glances at Kirk out of the corner of his eye as if he expects to be called out only cements Kirk’s convictions. Kirk will allow himself to believe that the fire was a mistake, but there’s no way in hell Spock thinks it’s unfortunate, or is one bit sorry about the outcome.

Turning away again to stare through the door, Kirk watches as Rudi’s body slowly goes limp, the components of the chair melting under the heat of the flames.

“Damn,” Kirk sighs, looking down at the mostly unbuttoned shirt he’s wearing and the thin red lines across his chest where the wires had burned him in the chair’s initial malfunction. “I left my jacket in there.”

Now there won’t be anything to hide the singe marks on the fabric, and at this point, with Kirk looking as miserable as he must, he needs all the cover he can get.

Spock glances over to survey Kirk too, eyes dropping to look him over again even though he has to have done so several times already.

“I find that your appearance is just as pleasing without it,” he offers, walking away before Kirk can respond, mouth hanging open. The American is left to wonder when simple compliments became capable of leaving him, the king of charm and suggestive small talk, speechless as he picks up the pace to follow Spock down the hall.

Whether or not Spock thinks Kirk still has his “pleasing” image without all the pieces of his suit present, Kirk still misses the feeling of being completely put together, and he doesn’t love the fact that his minimal but fresh burns are on display. When he tries to do up the open front of his shirt and discovers a few buttons missing, Kirk pouts a little, although the way Spock’s eyes keep straying to his exposed chest, whether out of interest or concern, makes Kirk feel slightly better.

Spock leads them through the labyrinth of tunnels until they emerge from under what appears to be an abandoned warehouse on the mainland. Kirk’s nothing but grateful as he steps into the daylight, taking a moment to enjoy the sun on his skin even as Spock approaches a nondescript van parked nearby.

With a small grin, Kirk immediately beelines for the vehicle, heading directly to the driver’s side to tug impatiently at the handle. Naturally, he is met with immediate protest, while Spock hovers nearby with a tiny scowl, refusing to unlock the car door.

“Have you not had enough action for one morning, Captain?” Spock asks, looking like he wants to grab at Kirk’s arm and pull him away.

“Don’t make me find something to pick the lock with, Spock, you know I’ll do it,” Kirk threatens cheekily, still tugging at the handle every few seconds in the hope that his persistence will annoy Spock enough to wear him down. He keeps eye contact with the Russian all the while, smiling sweetly until the other forfeits their staring contest, removing the keys from his pocket and tossing them to Kirk with a roll of his expressive eyes.

Kirk lets out a small victory cry and climbs into the driver’s seat, happily turning the key in the ignition as Spock joins him from the passenger’s side.

As exhausted as he is, Kirk wants to be in control of something. He needs to. If he has to sit in the passenger’s seat and dwell over his own torture while Spock drives, he knows he won’t make it to the island in a mental state capable of allowing him to carry out the rest of the mission. Right now, Kirk needs something to focus on, and the thought of sitting quietly while Spock broods behind the wheel sounds about as pleasant as getting teeth pulled. A fate, Kirk thinks, he nearly just endured.

When Kirk puts the van into reverse and steers them carefully out onto the main road, Spock has one hand gripping at the door handle as if he expects Kirk to crash them into a fence at any moment.

“Aw, come on, Spock. It’s not so bad, see?” Kirk cajoles, winking at Spock as he starts gunning it as fast as he dares down the poorly paved road.

Spock grunts noncommittally and lets go of his door for a moment to drag a duffle bag out of the back row of seats. A sliver of skin is bared at Spock’s waist from where his sweater rides up as he twists in reach, though Kirk only allows himself a split second to admire, not wanting to be caught staring or prove Spock correct by distractedly crashing the van. When Spock finally rights himself, he begins to shuffle through the bag, clearly searching for something in particular.

“Where are we going, anyway?” Kirk asks, watching out of the corner of his eye as Spock pulls out a small radio set, and unbelievably, an extra sweater. The former, Spock settles between his own legs on the seat, and the latter, he gently deposits in Kirk’s lap.

“I will contact my handler and have them arrange a ride for us at the nearest airfield, and from there we will be able to access the island on which the Singhs have built their villa. We will need to formulate a new plan for retrieving the warhead and Doctor Uhura’s disk.”

Kirk winces at the mention of Nyota’s father, a reminder of the woman’s recent betrayal. Kirk feels sick to his stomach, wondering if Spock knows. Distracted as he is, Kirk drives them right over a pothole, jostling Spock enough to earn himself a mild glare from his partner. Kirk offers an apologetic wince and shakes his head, eyes back on the road.

“Uh, hey. Listen, Spock. About Nyota. She told the Singhs about us. Marla was gloating about it before I ended up strapped to the chair in that bunker.”

Spock looks up from his radio set to nod, eyes solemn.

“I am already aware. I followed as Rudi brought her to the Singh estate. I was there to observe the negotiation between Nyota and Khan, a deal in which she would be allowed to visit her father in exchange for providing him with our identities. Our covers are no longer viable.”

Kirk grimaces and taps his fingers against the steering wheel, avoiding looking at Spock should his eyes match the sad tone of his voice. Kirk doesn’t think he could handle that particular view right now.

“Well, at least we don’t have to pretend anymore. We can go in and take care of business without worrying if we’re giving away secrets. Maybe we’ll even get to blow some stuff up,” Kirk tries, smiling a little at the idea and glancing at Spock to see if his weak attempt at cheer has had any impact.

The Russian is looking down at his lap, the half of his mouth that Kirk can see turned down in a frown that Spock is clearly trying to fight. Kirk can’t help the defeated sigh that drifts out from between his lips.

“Don’t kick yourself over it, Spock,” Kirk soothes, understanding that the pain of Nyota’s betrayal has cut them both more deeply than either of them would like to admit. Kirk was almost sure they had all started to become friends, before everything had gone to hell.

“She fooled you, and she fooled me too, but we’re still gonna have to try to save the world. We’ll do it, me and you, together. We don’t need anyone else.”

Spock’s expression doesn’t exactly improve at the sentiment, but he does at least raise his head to look over towards the driver’s side, eyes burning warmer in the brief moment Kirk manages to meet them.


	7. The Drums of War

Kirk tosses his damaged dress shirt into the van and is still pulling Spock’s sweater over his head with aching muscles when unfamiliar footsteps approaching over the gravel of the airflield’s parking lot catch his attention. Kirk gets the soft fabric settled over his shoulders just in time to see Spock post up at his side as if a magnet has drawn him there, and to take in a nearing face that Kirk immediately recognizes on a smiling man that does not belong in an airfield.

“Hello, Mister Kirk. We meet again.”

Pike steps up and catches Kirk’s hand in a firm, jovial shake before the American can even protest, still staring at the British man with disbelieving eyes. Pike moves on, palm extending towards Spock who only stares at it, forcing him to abandon his attempt as the Russian refuses to move his own hands from behind his back.

Undeterred, Pike smiles and shakes his head, changing tactics.

“Mister Spock, pleased to meet you. My name is Christopher Pike, British Naval Intelligence. I believe your instructions are for the both of you to follow me, so,” Pike hums, gesturing grandly to a helicopter parked on a landing pad. “Follow me.”

Kirk manages to close his mouth, gritting his jaw so that it doesn’t end up on the floor, exchanging a wary glance with Spock before the two agents trail after Pike to the military chopper. Spock doesn’t know Pike, and the last time Kirk had seen the man, he had been introduced to the American as someone in cahoots with the Singhs. Pike was supposed to be an oil tycoon, not someone escorting them through an airfield on a top secret mission. Too see the man here is unusual and surprising, even, but not wholly unprecedented. Life as an agent means a world of subterfuge, though Kirk usually prefers to be the one being unpredictable.

Kirk’s head is spinning, even as he attempts to piece together everything he remembers from what Pike and Marla had discussed at the party, desperately trying to avoid walking straight out of one trap and into another. Kirk can’t think of anything that sets off alarm bells in his head, and now that he’s stopped to consider it, it isn’t too difficult to imagine that someone from British Intelligence had been planted to work the Singh case too. Hell, Kirk was working with a KGB agent on behalf of the United States. Stranger things have happened than the possibility that Pike has been undercover all along, and has now openly joined the team.

The silver haired man makes no attempt to explain as they enter the helicopter, and points them to their seats. Kirk settles along one of the walls, facing Spock who does the same across from him. The look the Russian shoots him has a clear interpretation, telling Kirk that Spock is taking a large gamble by following Pike, doing so only because he’s willing to trust the American’s judgement. Kirk swallows roughly under the intensity of Spock’s gaze and hopes his gut instincts about Pike aren’t wrong. They don’t have time for another mishap.

“Alright, boys. Your handlers want to speak with you about the next leg of your mission, so radio in and make the most of your down time. We’ll be arriving at our destination shortly,” Pike explains, gesturing to the radio sets built in near each of their seats before leaving them to speak with the pilot.

Kirk shares an uneasy look with Spock and they both lift their headsets over their ears as the helicopter takes off. The American slowly establishes contact with Marcus, dreading the talk he already knows is coming. When the gruff man’s voice filters in over the muffled sound of the engine and heavy propellers, Kirk feels his stomach drop. Marcus gets right to the point, not bothering to ask about Kirk’s personal status or to say hello, although the opposite would have been more shocking.

“Kirk. You will report to Commander Pike of the British Naval Intelligence for the remainder of the mission,” Marcus orders, voice tight like he doesn’t wholly approve of the idea. Kirk lets out a small sigh of relief. At least Pike isn’t kidnapping them, if this handover really has been sanctioned by the CIA.

“It is absolutely vital that you retrieve Doctor Uhura and the computer disk,” Marcus continues, drawing Kirk’s attention back in. “They’re the key to the U. S. of A. winning this arms race, and I intend to win. Kill the Russian if necessary. Marcus out.”

Kirk snorts at his handler’s shortness, the small spark of humor quickly overwhelmed by the sick feeling that settles heavy in his gut. Across the aisle, Spock is still listening to his own handler with glassy eyes. There’s no justifiable way of pretending that Spock isn’t receiving the exact same orders as Kirk has just been given. Get the disk, win the arms race, kill your partner if he gets in the way. Kirk wonders, almost idly, if either of them would actually do it. Would Spock really be able to hold Kirk at the wrong end of a gun? Would Spock, for the sake of his country, really slaughter a — friend?

Kirk pointedly doesn’t think on why he’s not asking the same questions of himself, pretending he’s not already made up his mind, as he stretches his leg out subtly, pressing the side of his shoe against Spock’s.

Spock finally puts down his headset, resolutely not looking at Kirk even though the American is sitting directly in front of him. His foot, however, remains where it is.

Pike chooses that moment to stumble away from the copilot’s chair and settles down beside Kirk. The man hooks himself up to the helicopter’s communication channel, adjusting a microphone extending from his headset so he can speak and the other two agents will hear him in their own headphones.

“Gentlemen, can you hear me?”

When Kirk and Spock both nod in response, Pike straightens his tie and continues, looking pleased.

“Well, let’s think this through, shall we? If the Nazis are due to take delivery of this bomb at 0800, that gives us a luxurious fourteen hours in which to seize the island, secure the warhead, and wrinkle out poor Doctor Uhura. There is, of course, the small matter of retrieving my agent.”

“There is a British agent involved in this mission?” Spock asks, suddenly incredulous. The Russian hasn’t had as much time to adjust to the idea of Pike being a player in their game, like Kirk has.

Pike shrugs and offers an enigmatic smile.

“Well, she’s not British.”

“_She_ is not British?” Spock presses, more irritable than Kirk has seen him recently. Maybe Spock doesn’t take too well to newcomers, or maybe he’s just upset about the mission’s most likely outcome that they’ve been so kindly reminded of. Spock might not let his personal feelings affect his work, but Kirk is definitely suffering from the ludicrous idea that his handlers still plan on him killing Spock, and it hasn’t put him in the best mood either.

“Oh, God damnit,” Kirk sighs, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose as the events of the past few days suddenly click into place. “I’m starting to see the irony of this whole thing.”

“Are you?” Pike hums, bemused when Kirk looks up to survey the twinkle in the older man’s eye.

“Nyota’s working for you,” Kirk guesses dryly, unsure if he should be furious that neither he nor Spock had figured out the fact that Nyota was actually an agent all along, playing for more than one team.

“Well done, Kirk. You got there in the end,” Pike returns, almost teasing in the way his voice comes in over the speakers. “The thing is, when Doctor Uhura disappeared two years ago while he was still working for the Americans, we assumed his Nazi colleagues would come knocking at his daughter’s door next. Naturally, we recruited Miss Nyota, and waited. We were expecting the Nazis, of course, but what we got instead was you two. I’ve been meaning to thank you very much for nearly ruining two years of my work,” Pike explains with a bitter smile.

Ever the voice of reason, Spock sits up even straighter in his chair to stare Pike down.

“Nyota Uhura betrayed us to Khan Noonien Singh.”

“Yes. I told her to,” Pike clarifies, as if that makes things any better. “You were about to be exposed anyways. The only way she could stay in the game was to give you chaps up. She knew the engagement ring you gave her was bugged and that you’d be listening in to every word she said. She was counting on it.”

“You gave your fiancée a tracking device?” Kirk blurts incredulously, and Spock has the decency to look slightly abashed. Apparently Kirk wasn’t the only one the Russian had bothered to bug. Kirk could forgive it, only because Spock’s annoying foresight had saved him from hours of torture and eventual death.

Pike glances between the two of them with a wry smile and continues.

“Nyota knew you were listening, Spock. She knew she was passing along vital information about the mission to you before she got in any deeper with Khan. She also knew that by betraying you so obviously, she would be giving even the average agent time to escape. And you’re not average, are you, Mister Spock?”

Kirk rolls his eyes and shakes his head, bitterness rising in him in an unstoppable wave. Despite the backhanded compliments to his person, Spock stays silent as Kirk speaks up.

“Let me translate this into English. Pike, you told Nyota to blow our covers and force us to play catch-up so that your agency could find her father first. But you’ve lost track of your lovely agent and you now need us to help find her and finish the job that you blundered. Spock and I almost had it, before you told Nyota to throw us to the wolves.”

Pike blinks at him for a moment and glances over at a now glowering Spock before he finds the words to speak once more.

“Well, that is a very poor translation, Kirk, but… Well, in a nutshell, yes. Please, and thank you very much. We’re obviously all very fond of Nyota, and now we have a chance to save her. I…” Pike trails off as proximity alarms begin to blare, though he doesn’t seem very concerned.

“What is that?” Spock asks, staring with scrutinizing eyes out the window at the ocean below them.

Pike rises and begins to head back to the copilot’s seat.

“It’s an aircraft carrier, Spock,” he calls over his shoulder. “For a special agent, you’re not having a very special day, are you?”

Pike is already settled in his chair by the time he’s finished speaking, so that they only hear him because of their connected headsets.

“Asshole,” Kirk mutters into his own microphone on Spock’s behalf, laughing when the Russian raises an eyebrow at him and Pike succumbs to a coughing fit in the front seat.

Spock’s finally looking at him, expression still neutral, when his ankle shifts, the toe of his shoe moving to rest on top of Kirk’s.

—————

Nyota is sick with worry the entire flight to the island, seated beside an unbothered, champagne-sipping Khan in the man’s helicopter. They finally touch down on the landing pad of an island that can only be the location of the Singh family’s villa retreat, whose beauty does nothing to distract Nyota from the seriousness of her situation.

The site is breathtaking with rolling hills leading out to the beach, but the only thing that Nyota has eyes for is the tall man in a dark suit standing uneasily to the side of the landing pad. She hasn’t seen him in over twenty years, but her father is unmistakable. Nyota sucks in a measured breath and schools her facial expression into something more relaxed as Khan guides her out of the helicopter with a hand at her elbow.

“I’ll let you get reacquainted with your daughter, Udo,” Khan directs, looking between the two of them and wandering to wait a few yards away with an enigmatic smile

Udo looks older than Nyota has ever seen him, even worse than in the somewhat recent photographs the British intelligence agency had shown her when she was recruited. It’s strange, seeing him face to face after all of these years, feeling more like meeting a ghost than the reunion that it is. Despite their blood relation and how much Udo must have cared for her as a child, Nyota does not know him.

“Nyota,” the older man breathes, looking close to tears as he steps forward, gently folding her into his arms. When Nyota returns the gesture, her father ducks his head into her shoulder, and a volley of emotions threaten to overwhelm her.

She hates that it has taken the end of the world for her to meet her father, and that, unless Pike and the agents she left behind can work a miracle, the day Nyota meets him may also be the last she has with him.

“You must appear to cooperate,” Udo finally whispers, face still hidden at Nyota’s shoulder. “It is the best chance we have to disable the bomb. Guards watch every step of the process, but this is the last chance I have to sabotage it. I had refused to finish it, even when they threatened to kill me, I would have gladly died to prevent them from using my research. But now,” Udo sniffs, voice heavy with regret, “they have you. I agreed to finish, so that they would leave you alone, so that they would not kill you. But now… my sweet Nyota, I am so sorry we have met like this. Please, will you help me?”

Shock floods Nyota as she realizes that while she has always believed her father to be working for the Nazis by force, she had not expected him to be forming a plan of resistance. Nyota works to calm her tumultuous emotions and gives an almost imperceptible nod. There is no way for her father to know that his daughter is a trained agent, and that his chances for success have just risen exponentially. Nyota’s odds have equally skyrocketed, never having counted on assistance from her brilliant father, possibly the most qualified person in the world to disarm the warheads.

“Yes, father,” Nyota whispers, fighting back unshed tears. “I will help you.”

Udo squeezes her tightly before slowly releases her, clearly reluctant to let go of something so precious to him. Nyota offers him a watery smile before turning to see Khan and Marla Singh walking up the path. Marla appears to have just come off of a boat, and it is clear that Khan had left to retrieve her.

Letting go of her husband’s arm, Marla approaches them with a frown, watching as Nyota clings to Udo’s side.

“My father has been unwell,” Nyota announces, letting some of her distress show through. “The stress and his condition have lead him to doubt his ability to finish the weapon. He will be able to complete it with my help.”

Marla looks them both over with critical eyes over the tops of her designer sunglasses, a small smirk on her painted lips.

“A daughter’s touch?”

Udo nods and clasps Nyota’s hand in his own.

“Nyota has agreed to assist me. Her help will ensure I finish on time.”

Marla exchanges a quick glance with Khan, who leaves at her tacit signal.

“A wonderful idea, Doctor,” Marla hums, gesturing for her detail of guards to escort Nyota and Udo down a set of stairs to an underground lab.

The space is small and dark, lit with bare overhead bulbs and covered with bits of mostly assembled engineering. On a central lab bench in a cradle of foam and metal sits what is unmistakably a missile, even partially unassembled. There is a second missile a few tables down that appears to be fully assembled, and identical to the unfinished one as far as Nyota can tell. Their intelligence hadn’t suggested the possibility of more than one bomb, and Nyota is left feeling sick at the potential for destruction, and confused about how their intel could have missed this.

The guards take up their posts at strategic locations around the room while a technician emerges from one of the side rooms to help. Marla settles off to the side to watch the new man and her father work on the unfinished bomb. It is clear by the way they are being watched that they are not trusted, and that trickery or resistance is expected. However, Udo shows no signs of his planned sabotage, working methodically with the technician and explaining the inner mechanisms to Nyota as he assembles the different components.

Nyota is no rocket scientist, but she is an engineer, and her genius father’s daughter. It doesn’t take her long to pick up what the important pieces of the missile are, and how they work, continuing to ask questions both to learn, and to stall, waiting for the moment her father does something to make the warhead inert.

“What is that?” Nyota asks the technician, genuinely curious as the man lifts up a bit of round glass and inserts it into the components her father is working on.

“This is a reflector lens,” the man answers, hardly glancing at Nyota and keeping his eyes cast fearfully down. The man knows what he is doing, working alongside Udo, but it is clear that he has no intention of disobeying the Singhs.

“What does it do?”

“It helps adjust the missile’s honing capabilities,” the man explains.

Nyota hums politely and looks to the piece of machinery her father has been adjusting whenever the technician seems to be focused elsewhere.

“And what is that, father?” Nyota asks.

“Well, it’s known as a coupler. It sends a signal which enables another missile, like that one on the other table, to lock onto this one for double the impact. As you can see, this is an older model of missile that I have adapted for the nuclear technology. This coupling component is left over from when this warhead contained conventional explosives. Now that we are converting it to nuclear weaponry, it’s redundant,” Udo explains patiently, sounding almost bored, though his gaze is suddenly bright.

As she listens to her father’s words and his careful emphasis about what Nyota immediately identifies as a self-destruction plan, Nyota is struck with inspiration. This “redundant” component is not so redundant. Udo has been assembling the mechanism along with the rest of the weaponry. He intends for it to be used. If Nyota can escape to inform Pike of the missile’s built-in mutual destruction plan, they can get the missiles somewhere out in the middle of the ocean and use them to destroy each other, stopping them from ever being used for their actual purpose. But, Nyota remembers, she will have to escape first.

Now all Udo needs is a distraction, and an opportunity to assemble the last pieces of the coupler without the technician, the only one who would understand its significance, to see what he is doing. Nyota knows that she can provide it to him.

Nyota abruptly knocks a tray of tiny tools onto the floor at the technician’s feet.

“I’m sorry,” she gasps, pouring every ounce of sincerity into her voice that she can, even as she makes no move to help the man clean up when he ducks below the table to start gathering the instruments.

Udo quickly reaches out to switch a glass lens with a differently sized one, the action obvious in what the doctor must intend to be a distraction as he more discreetly plugs in a wire closer to the table, where the action is shielded from Marla by his body.

Suspicious of the sudden commotion, Marla steps closer, scowling at Udo with narrowed eyes.

“We are almost done, Madam Singh,” Nyota pleads, hoping to soothe the other woman’s impatience. The technician rises from the floor with his various tools and gets right back to work, the picture of fearful professionalism.

“Those are the words we’ve been waiting to hear,” Marla replies, pulling a gun from her handbag to level it at Udo.

“What are you doing?” Udo gasps, hands rising into the air while Nyota’s heart hammers in her chest.

“Let’s stop playing games, shall we?” Marla whispers, waving over a guard with her free hand and gesturing to Nyota.

“Put her in a cell. If you don’t hear from me in twenty minutes, kill her. That is how long you have to finish, Doctor. And you can start by putting back the correct lens,” Marla sneers.

Nyota struggles briefly before her arms are yanked roughly behind her back, anxiety skyrocketing in fear for her father’s life even as relief washes over her. At least the distraction with the lens seems to have worked. If Nyota ever escaped, perhaps there was hope for her father’s backup plan after all. With the guard pulling her along unkindly, Nyota has no choice but to allow herself to be dragged out of the room without her father.

—————

Still in the lab, Udo works frantically to finish piecing together the warhead as Marla watches him, a gun still pointed at his chest. When the last panel is drilled into place, Udo stands back, hands raised.

“It’s done,” he announces miserably. “And with three minutes to spare.”

“And the computer disk, with your research?” Marla asks, even as Udo is removing it from a file and handing it to her.

“Thank you, Doctor. And the backup?”

Udo sighs and steps away to his desk, reaching for the solitary, framed photo of himself and his young daughter. With shaking hands, Udo removes the back panel and retrieves the disk to place it in Marla’s waiting hand.

“Alright. You have everything from me,” he frets, tense with fear. “I held up my end of the bargain. Now, what of Nyota?”

Marla hums and tucks the research disks away into her bag.

“Dear Nyota will be joining you shortly,” she promises, and promptly shoots the doctor between the eyes.


	8. We Have Location

“So, Singh Island,” Pike begins, speaking to his new agents and the bridge crew at large as he stands before a tactical map of their target location. “There is a small village and a harbor on the northern side, and the Singh villa in the east, but otherwise, it’s largely unpopulated. It will be best to strike at 0400, when they’re least likely to be vigilant, while still giving you enough time to retrieve Nyota and the bomb. We’ll send a team in through the front door here at the harbor, while agents Spock and Kirk infiltrate more covertly at the villa.”

From where he’s standing beside Kirk, Spock nods in acknowledgement, both hands folded behind him, back impossibly straight, like the military environment has only intensified his natural formality.

“Yes, sir,” Kirk adds, any teasing gone from his tone now that it’s time to discuss business, though he doesn’t stand as stiffly as Spock, hands tucked into his pockets instead.

Seeming bewildered but approving of the relative professionalism he is being treated to, Pike flashes the agents a quick smile.

“I’m sure they’ll be expecting you boys by now, so you’ll need all the help you can get.”

A large, uniformed officer whose expression and demeanor reminds Kirk of a particularly vigilant bulldog steps up to stand beside Pike as he continues.

”Hendorff and his men will get you in there and provide some ground cover to keep the enemy entertained. The rest is up to you,” Pike adds, looking back to Kirk and Spock. “If you’d like to take a few hours to rest, there’s a cabin with your names on it. The mess isn’t particularly charming, but flag any of the cadets down and have them escort you if you’re hungry.”

Kirk exchanges a quick glance with Spock before facing Pike again with a nod.

“We’ll take you up on those bunks. We’ve got a big day ahead of us cleaning up your mess. _Sir_,” Kirk adds cheekily, loosening up again now that the briefing is over, the formal address purposefully delayed as Kirk attempts to discover exactly where Pike intends to toe the line on proper protocol as commanding officer.

When Pike only responds with a wry smile of his own and waves them out, Spock following on Kirk’s heels, the American decides that maybe he actually likes the Brit, even if he’s the reason the missile isn’t in hand by now.

Spock is silent as they enter the spare room on one of the lower decks of the ship, saying nothing while Kirk eyes the two bare bunks where they’re bolted to the far wall. Kirk grimaces and wanders into the cramped space, flopping onto the bottom bed with his boots still on and one leg dangling off the side. He attempts to get comfortable despite the fact that the spartan setting reminds Kirk of his brief, unpleasant stint in prison. Even the army barracks during the war hadn’t been this miserably bleak.

Spock raises an eyebrow at the display and settles on a tiny bench along the opposite wall instead of crawling up to get to the top bunk. Kirk follows Spock’s motion out of the corner of his eye and snorts inelegantly at the mental image of the Russian cramming his lean frame into the small space. Spock would probably be almost too tall to fit comfortably on one of the beds anyway.

“You need less beauty sleep than the rest of us mortals, Vulcan, or are you just worried I might stick a knife between your ribs while you’re unconscious?” Kirk teases dryly, watching Spock study his profile.

“I don’t bite, unless you like that sort of thing,” Kirk adds, closing his eyes as a smile works into his expression. He knows he’s vulnerable, Spock only a good pounce away, and the fact that they’re closer than ever to having to decide how this mission will end should all leave him a lot less comfortable than he currently is. The two of them could be facing off to the death as soon as tomorrow for Doctor Uhura’s disk and yet, Kirk feels entirely unthreatened by the Russian’s presence. He’s still wearing the other man’s sweater, for heaven’s sake, with the whole thing feeling entirely too cozy for Kirk’s own good.

“You are not as skilled as you believe yourself to be at getting the reactions you want,” Spock’s replies, voice level as his head lolls back against the wall, if only to avoid the angle at which Kirk could clearly see the beginning of a smile.

“I think I’ve been plenty successful, getting a _rise_,” Kirk pauses after the word, giving it it’s due moment before adding, spoken as almost as an afterthought, “out of you.”

Maybe it’s the combination of being both drugged and tortured in one day, on top of the regular stress of running a high-stakes mission, but Kirk feels ready to doze off even as he chuckles as his own stupid joke. The spicy, sharp smell he knows as only Spock washing over Kirk every time he jostles the sweater isn’t helping his shot at staying awake either. The American is wholly unprepared for Spock to reply at all, let alone ready for what he actually says when it comes.

“Do not begin what you do not intend to finish, Captain,” Spock returns, his accent digging deeper into his speech as his voice drops lower.

Kirk blinks open his eyes and props himself up on his elbows, an elated, disbelieving smile on his lips as his heart rate flutters up a notch or three.

“Why, Mister Spock,” he purrs, eyelids lowering even as he feigns innocence. “What on Earth are you accusing me of?”

Spock, enigmatic as ever, only raises an eyebrow at Kirk in response, clearly still fighting his own smile as he rises, making the two-step journey over to the beds. His fingers are already wrapping around the ladder’s rungs when he peers down at the American’s face where it sits level with his waist.

There’s a definite moment, ripe with a decision being made, before Spock’s lips part, looking entirely too pleased.

“Imbecility does not become you,” the Russian offers, the backhanded compliment laid out delicately between them.

Without waiting for a response, or perhaps hoping to discourage one, Spock climbs to the top bunk. When the other man settles on his back, boots poking over the edge of the bed, Kirk doesn’t bother to disguise the laugh that bubbles up from his chest, rolling over onto his side so that his back faces the wall.

“Goodnight, Spock,” Kirk hums once he’s settled down, clutching the thin, regulation pillow to his chest rather than putting it under his head, the smell of Spock surrounding him as he uses his own curled arm as a cushion instead. Maybe the exhaustion is finally getting to him.

“Goodnight, Jim,” returns Spock’s low baritone, and Kirk wonders if he’s ever been happier falling asleep with someone in the same room without even having them in his bed.

—————

Morning comes too quickly, Kirk startling awake with Spock’s gentle hand on his shoulder. It takes the agent a moment to remember where he is and why, but as soon as he does, he relaxes once more against the hard bunk.

“The time for, what I believe you named, ‘beauty sleep’ is over, Captain,” Spock announces as he moves away, already outfitted for the mission ahead. Only half awake, Kirk blearily mourns the fact that he missed the opportunity to watch Spock ready himself for the day.

“Well then, I’ve never been called ugly so kindly before,” Kirk mumbles, a smile forming on his face as he rolls over onto his back and stretches, unable to find the will to feign actual offense.

“That would not be my adjective of choice if I were to make an attempt at describing your appearance,” Spock returns, meeting Kirk’s gaze and holding it as his mouth settles into something too confident for the American’s liking.

“Oh?” Kirk asks, fully excited to get the Russian back into the conversational hot seat as he sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bunk. “And what adjective _would_ be your choice?”

A small war occurs in the next for moments, one that only lives between two sets of eyes as their owners try to determine who will be the first to relent. Kirk’s cards have been laid mostly bare on the table, but under the guise of cockiness that could easily excuse his flirtatious behavior. And Spock? The Russian is clearly battling with the decision of whether it’s worse to fold, or to play and lose.

Before Spock actually has a chance to reply, a nervous Lieutenant knocks on the door and pushes it open.

“Sirs. Agent Pike has sent me to retrieve you. He says to tell you that launch is a go, upon your arrival.”

Spock tries to dismiss the messenger with a curt nod, although the Lieutenant just stands at attention outside their door, waiting to escort them regardless. Kirk sighs in mourning of the lost moment, knowing the opportunity for more is unlikely as he hauls himself to his feet, stretching his sore muscles languidly and making sure to put on a show. It’s not difficult to get close to Spock as he does so, considering the cabin barely has enough room to swing a cat. Kirk is rewarded by the way Spock very poorly manages to hide the fact that he’s staring at the exaggerated flex of muscles, which the American sets to the soundtrack of a ridiculous orchestra of groans.

By the time Kirk has finished misbehaving and actually gets to gathering his things, the Lieutenant appears slightly flushed from the display he’s just witnessed, managing to avoid looking at Kirk despite the tight space. When they finally start heading towards the top deck, Kirk is grinning and overly pleased with himself. That is, until Spock leans in from behind him in the narrow hallway.

“_A show such as that is usually equipped with a pole_,” Spock whispers directly into his ear in a tone that manages to make the Russian language sound playful. Kirk nearly trips over the bottom edge of a doorframe as the words register, telling himself it has nothing to do with the commentary, all while adamantly refusing to look behind him as he rights himself and straightens his shoulders, too stunned to formulate a reply as they follow the Lieutenant down the hall.

It’s a brutally wet morning when they emerge from the lower decks, mist falling just heavily enough to drench anyone subjected to it, but still too light to be considered rain. Visibility is low as the aircraft carrier approaches the island, lights put out to retain some measure of stealth.

Black rubber boats are lowered into the water off the starboard side of the ship, three with teams of armed men, and one with Kirk, Spock, and a soldier to man the controls. Spock looks a little green when they hit the water, gripping the ropes at the side of the boat with tight fingers with one hand, his side pressed close to Kirk’s in the small space. The ride is rough, the waves choppy against their tiny boat, and although the man steering does his best to avoid the worst of it, Spock looks even more miserable than usual by the time they finally reach the shore. Kirk graciously decides not to mention it to his partner, hoping, for Spock’s sake, his coloring simply looks off in the dim lighting, and knowing that any teasing would be met with a firm look of disappointment at this critical stage of the mission.

As soon as they get their feet on solid ground, their driver speeds away, and Kirk hears distant shouts as Hendorff’s men have no doubt begun to draw away any security guards anticipating an attack. Kirk and Spock have been tasked with the more discreet approach, and Kirk is glad for the privacy.

Operating in silent tandem, the agents jog through the damp sand towards the villa, looking more like a medieval castle than the breezy vacation spot it poses as the closer they get. They move quickly, seeking the cover of the deeper shadows cast by the massive surrounding walls where the structure sprawls to meet the scrub-dotted shoreline. Kirk swallows as he looks up at the twelve foot high stone barricade they need to get past in order to do their jobs.

“How good is your ladder impression, Spock?” Kirk teases, granting enough of his face that his smirk will be seen. The suggestion seems to settle over Spock with a frown, but the Russian steps closer without protest.

“I am amenable to the idea. Provided that you still have the strength to lift me after the taxing display you provided in our quarters before reporting for duty.”

Kirk can practically feel the unspoken challenge in Spock’s surprisingly playful voice, but the raised eyebrow he can make out in the low light cements his suspicions.

“Of course I can do it,” Kirk responds automatically, his competitive nature and maybe not-so-secret desire to climb Spock like a tree kicking in.

Spock only answers by dropping to one knee to play his role, staring unblinkingly up at the American. Fighting the dryness of his throat, Kirk swallows and steps forward to swing a leg over Spock’s shoulders, settling into place. The Russian’s hands grip onto Kirk’s thighs as he effortlessly rises to his feet, helping Kirk balance at the sudden movement.

Kirk forces himself to focus, bracing himself with one hand against the wall and carefully gets to his feet on the Russian’s shoulders, Spock’s hands moving to encircle his ankles. He’s steady as a rock, and seems a good sport for a man with another grown human being on his shoulders, though Kirk still attempts to hurry along, trying not to enjoy himself too much.

Pulling himself up, Kirk finds ample room on top of the thick wall, void of any sharp edges that would dig into his gut as he moves onto his stomach, keeping his legs on the villa-side of the wall to act as a counter balance. Spock wastes no time in backing up a few steps to take a running start, springing off of the wall with his foot as he uses the resistance to jump higher and clasp Kirk’s outstretched forearms. Kirk struggles with his weight for a moment, jerked down at Spock’s sudden weight, but then finally manages to drag the Russian up and over the wall by mutual sheer force of will. Spock is no sooner sitting next to him before he’s hopping off, leaving Kirk to watch as he gracefully lands on the ground.

“You’re heavier than you look, Mister Spock,” Kirk mutters as he catches up, trying to ignore the warm buzzing of his hands from where they’d held Spock’s wrists. He swears that for a brief second he sees the Russian grinning, only to lose the sight as Spock picks up the pace, jogging away towards the villa, and Kirk is forced to follow.

According to the intel Pike had provided them, there was a high probability that the weapons lab had been built underground; easier to avoid suspecting eyes and, unfortunately for them, easier to protect against infiltration. However, it also made it easier to locate, with the lack of other ominously downward leading staircases to choose from. Kirk immediately spies the entrance across the courtyard, tucked away behind some bushes in a miserable attempt to look discreet. One look at Spock tells him that the sight has already raised a red flag in the Russian’s head too. Spock slips forward, leading Kirk through the shadows towards it with only a nod. It’s slow progress getting there, every few steps being followed by a pause as they let the frantic guards rush past them in the direction of Hendorff’s commotion, but neither of them are going to allow impatience to blow the mission open this late in the game.

When they finally reach their destination, arriving at the locked door at the bottom of the staircase, Spock hesitates, dark eyes darting to Kirk and then back to the lock.

“Would you like to give it a shot, Spock? Or are you ready to admit my fingers are simply more talented?” Kirk hums, stepping forward into the Russian’s space with a smile so wide it makes his cheeks hurt. Spock rolls his eyes, stepping aside without argument or admission.

“Don’t worry, Vulcan,” Kirk coos playfully. “I’m sure yours are plenty good for something.”

Spock doesn’t dignify him with a response, but Kirk doesn’t mind, gleefully getting to work. As he opens up the panel to examine its workings, Kirk begins to whistle softly, if only because he knows it will bother his partner, and though the Russian’s face is ripe with annoyance, Kirk doesn’t miss the way the other man never looks away from his hands as they make quick work of the alarm. Once the system is disarmed and Kirk is sure nothing will be drawing any unwanted attention their way, he shifts his attention to the actual hardware on the door. It takes longer than it should for Kirk to spring the deadbolt, that is to say, an entire 45 seconds, having left his more adaptable lock breaking equipment at the hotel.

Rising to his feet, Kirk winks at Spock as the door swings ajar on its own to the blessed sound of silence from his partner, though the expression on Spock’s face is unfathomably intense, freezing Kirk so acutely that he even forgets to draw his weapon despite knowing that any number of unpredictable scenarios could be behind the door he’s just opened.

The corner of Spock’s mouth tweaks up like he knows something Kirk doesn’t, only breaking eye contact to step through the threshold, gun leveled with his eye-line as he starts to clear the room, appearing unphased. Now that Spock isn’t looking at him, Kirk feels like he can breathe again, though he has to shake himself out from the mental daze Spock’s left him in before following after his partner.

The room they’ve just broken into is unquestionably the secret, underground weapons lab they’ve been sent here to find. There are racks of machinery along the walls and tools scattered about, as if someone had come in and cleaned everything out in a hurry, leaving only the non-essentials behind and making a mess of things in the process. Kirk works the left side,Spock taking the right, checking behind racks and doorways to confirm that the room is indeed empty and that they’re alone.

Once finished, Kirk announces the all clear, looking behind him to check on Spock’s progress and hoping for a mirrored response so he can put his gun down for a minute. Spock’s expression causes Kirk to freeze, the Russian’s gaze having dropped to the ground, his body an eerie level of immbolile.

Moving without thinking, Kirk vaults himself over the nearby table blocking his view of Spock’s legs and the floor, nearly slipping in his haste to get closer. What Kirk sees when he lands is more grim but less exciting than he had expected.

“Looks like we found Doctor Uhura,” Kirk notes dryly, observing the stiff, prone body of a dark skinned man in a lab coat. There’s a large, drying pool of blood spread across the floor, and Kirk leans in to inspect the gruesome head wound that seems to be the cause of it all, despite Spock’s slightly disgusted look.

“The bomb was here,” Spock states, breaking away to inspect a nearby table to avoid looking at the body any longer as he changes the subject. The guarded expression on the Russian’s face makes Kirk wonder if his partner is thinking about Nyota too, and if she has been subjected to the same unfortunate fate as her father. The idea makes Kirk uneasy, but he knows they can’t afford to let their emotions complicate things, as they both know that the odds are already not in their favor. They’re here for the bomb and research disk first, and Nyota second.

When Spock take out a radiation scanner and slings the strap around his neck, the machine begins to emit a soft, frantic beeping the moment it’s turned on. Spock seems distracted as he appears to deliberate with where to look first, there being so much leftover radiation in the room. Kirk takes a moment to admire the elegant line of Spock’s frame in the low light and sighs, thumbing the trigger guard of his gun idly. He knows that splitting up here could be the death of him, if Spock should track down the bomb or the research disc without him, it would nearly seal the fate of Kirk being abandoned here, alone. They’ve already seen a couple dozen guards in the facility, with God only knows how many more left wandering the halls, making ‘alone’ a less than promising state. And yet, Kirk knows, that time is only working against them, the likelihood of the mission’s success ticking down with the second hand. While he imagines the veins popping in Marcus’s forehead if he ever finds out about Kirk’s decision, the resigned huff that the American lets out catches Spock’s attention.

“Go, try to pick up a trail. I’ll take care of the guards,” Kirk promises. It’s an enormous risk, offering to stay behind and giving Spock a head start on the missile’s location, but he also knows their chances are better this way. The American just has to trust that his partner won’t betray him, even if it’s exactly what Kirk would do. Would have done, anyways. Kirk isn’t so sure anymore.

Spock seems to weigh the significance of Kirk’s offer as well, holding the other agent’s gaze for a long, heavy moment before offering a terse, grateful nod. Turning on his heel, Spock disappears down the hall with his eyes glued to his device, leaving Kirk alone in the lab. The American waits near the stairwell, meaning to make good on his word and protect Spock while the other man works. It’s only a matter of time before someone figures out that the scene Hendorff is causing is just a distraction, and they send one of their own back to check on the lab.

Sure enough, the peace is cut short after only a handful of minutes. Several sets of heavy footsteps echo down the hall as a squad of men descend the narrow stone stairs, and Kirk readies himself behind a newly overturned lab bench. The men are met with a heavy spray of bullets from the America’s gun, going down with such a lack of effort on his part that even Kirk has to admit that they’ve made his job look easy.

With Spock still off investigating and no more footsteps within earshot, Kirk rises from his cover to inspect the bodies for anything he can use, like extra weapons or a radio tuned in to the enemy’s signal. As Kirk approaches the first guard, it strikes him that the man looks achingly familiar. Fighting off waves of disbelief, Kirk stares at the man’s face for just a moment longer before reaching down to tug at the cuff of his tactical jacket.

Kirk lets out a soft, high whistle at the sight.

A very antique watch sits loosely on the man’s wrist, silver and slightly scuffed, but clearly well taken care of despite its age. The familiar watch is all Kirk needs to confirm that this was one of the same thugs employed by the Singhs who had tailed Spock and Nyota their first night in Rome. The watch was Spock’s—the one the Russian had been looking for with an almost ridiculous insistence, to the point of nearly compromising their mission in the Singh factory because he’d seen a shiny bracelet.

Without a second thought, Kirk quickly strips the accessory from the dead body and slips it securely into his pocket.

With still no sign of any additional guards approaching and a plethora of other defensible positions further down the hall, Kirk begins to wander a bit, curious as to what he might find tucked away in one of the other labs. There’s no sign of Spock, although a few doors have been left ajar like they’d been scanned and abandoned with little care once their data had been observed. Kirk finds the first door that’s still closed and swings it open, almost disappointed that he doesn’t have to pick the lock.

An array of security monitors line the wall, several of them live with footage of various locations around the Singh Villa. Kirk immediately searches for Spock and is relieved to see him bent over a piece of machinery, scanner lit up, and seemingly safe for the time being. A few of the other monitors show the scene occuring outside where several groups of the Singh’s men are still fighting off Hendorff’s teams. From what the American can make out, they’re doing an excellent job keeping the enemy occupied, the Singh security forces looking embarrassingly disorganized and frantic in the face of military precision.

However, a less chaotic movement catches Kirk’s eye, drawing his gaze to the farthest monitor which shows footage of the main entrance to the villa. Khan Noonien Singh appears in the driveway, dragging a heavy mass of something into the back of professional off-road vehicle, one in which Nyota is handcuffed and limp in the front seat.

Kirk’s hand flies to his radio.

“Kirk to Spock, come in.”

“Spock here.”

“Khan has Nyota and the bomb. They’re at the entrance, he’s making his escape as we speak.”

Spock’s reply doesn’t come for a beat, undoubtedly realizing that both the item and the woman they have been sent to retrieve are quickly slipping from the realm of their grasp.

“Go, quickly. I will be close behind,” Spock commands, before his radio signal falls back into silence and Kirk watches him sprint out of the room via the security monitor.

“Roger. Kirk out.”

Kirk winds his way out of the estate in a messy jog, taking several wrong turns through the unfamiliar maze before finding his way to the villa entrance. Spock hasn't arrived, and while Khan and Nyota were here with the bomb only moments ago, they’re long enough gone that even their dust cloud has settled.

Kirk curses to himself, knowing there’s no time to wait for his partner. He mournfully passes on a sleek motorbike in favor of the versatile utility jeep, knowing what it lacks in speed and style its wide tires and four wheel drive will more than make up for in the less groomed portions of the Singh Estate.

By splicing together a few key wires, he coaxes the engine to life, tearing out of the villa drive and into the island’s wilds, following the clearly fresh tracks set into the soft earth. It appears as if Khan is driving in the direction of the docks, where he will likely be attempting to rendezvous with a ship that will take him and the warhead away to meet the waiting submarine.

The island is partially wooded, with large hills cutting through the center and lower lying marshlands on either side, studded with dry brush and winding dirt paths. The geography makes visibility difficult, especially as it begins to rain in earnest, the mist of the early morning disappearing with the slowly rising sun. Nevertheless, Kirk manages to finally getting a glimpse of Khan’s vehicle through the trees, far enough ahead that Kirk realizes that he’ll never catch up in time if he doesn’t start taking drastic measures. With gritted teeth, the agent begins to make bolder moves, cutting his own path through the growth as he leaves the stability of the dirt road behind. He floors it even as the jeep violently navigates the terrain, knowing he’s pushing the vehicle to its limits.

It feels like an eternity of one long near death experience, but Kirk catches up to Khan’s car with his own still in one piece. The American aims for the crest of an approaching hill, hoping to cut off Khan as the man makes the more sensible choice of driving around it. When Kirk flies over the other side and lands heavily back onto the road, he finds himself still nearly two hundred yards behind and curses to himself despite being the closest he’s been yet.

Khan suddenly veers off the road with intentional precision, steering his jeep down towards a stretch of lowland brush with a pond of muddy water at the center, attempting to cut across the small plane rather than risk taking the widely arching road the long way around, knowing his vehicle will not win a fair race. Kirk watches with mild disbelief as Khan moves to drive the jeep directly into what at first looks like a puddle until the waterline rises to an alarming level, the two occupants craning their heads backwards as their faces just barely remain above the surface. He watches as the jeep obviously struggles, scarcely making it to the bank on the far side.

Kirk frantically whips around, checking for an extended exhaust on his own vehicle and curses, hand coming down hard against the steering wheel in frustration when he doesn’t find one. Khan’s detour has just eaten up all of Kirk’s gained ground, with no other option than to follow the long arch of the actual road to avoid flooding the engine. He tries to calculate out how much further Khan has to reach the marina and the comparative speeds of their vehicles, searching for a way to still win this.

From his location only a quarter mile from the water’s edge, a stroke of brilliance, or perhaps insanity, hits Kirk suddenly. The agent makes a quick note of all the individual ways this is a terrible idea, pretending that his thoughts aren’t twinged in a Russian accent, as he crosses his fingers and follows Khan’s path directly across the pond. Instead of slowing down with caution as the other man had, Kirk guns the jeep instead, pushing the gas pedal nearly to the floorboards as he continues to accelerate on the approach. Kirk finally dares to breathe as his much lighter jeep skims over the surface by sheer force of momentum instead of sinking in where he’d be left with the sole option of swimming. Kirk lets out a gleeful, disbelieving whoop at the way his gamble has played off and he hits the other side mostly dry, his speed across the pond allowing him to gain on Khan.

The other man desperately makes for the road again as the path cuts back into the mountain, with the abrupt, rising cliff on one side and the flatter scrubland on the other, Kirk hot on his tail. As narrow as the path is, there’s no way for Kirk to pass or draw alongside Khan without veering off the road and into the brush, which will slow him down significantly and cost him the distance he’s managed to make up. Ramming into the back of the jeep is also not an option, as Kirk isn’t particularly keen on setting off the bomb with the impact of his bumper. Just when he’s beginning to think he’s run out of good options, the unmistakable noise of an approaching third engine cuts through the American’s comparison of less optimal plan B’s.

Glancing up from the road in amazement, Kirk looks up to see Spock flying down the side of the mountain on the motorcycle that he’d left at the villa, careening wildly onto the road just in front of Khan. The victorious shout that Kirk lets out is drowned out by the deafening ping of Spock shooting out Khan’s tires, causing the other jeep to lose control for a moment. Khan overcorrects himself, jerking the vehicle violently in the opposite direction of the one it’s careening in, and slams directly into Spock.

Kirk experiences a brief moment of horror as he watches Spock fly over the handlebars as the bike is tossed off the road as like a toy, a storm brewing inside of him that he’s never felt before. His stomach has completely dropped out of his body, his heart moving into his throat, and the rational center of his brain has been replaced with only a fountain of untamed rage. Red floods his vision, and Kirk doesn’t think when the road widens out, gunning his jeep forward to squeeze between the rising cliff and Khan. In a split second decision, Kirk jerks the wheel, crashing into the side of Khan’s jeep to send it off of the road, where it topples down a small hill, rolling laterally until it lands with an unholy shriek on its back.

Slamming on his breaks immediately, Kirk whips his jeep around in the narrow space of the road. He eyes the newly formed gap in the grass that lines the edge of the dirt, signaling the spot where Spock’s bike was sent hurtling into the brush, telling himself the scene here must be secured before a rescue is even attempted. A sick feeling burns inside of him as he forces himself to look away, to drive off the road in pursuit of Khan’s now stationary vehicle. Once he’s within a few feet, Kirk throws the jeep into park and jumps out onto the slippery mud, scrambling over to the passenger side of Khan’s car, desperately searching for a sign of Nyota.

While Khan groans and struggles in his restraints, tied to the ceiling by his seat belt, Nyota lies limpy on the inside of the car’s roof, badly jostled and soaking wet. She’s shaking from the cold and the shock of the crash, bleeding from a gash on her head, and Kirk’s fingers are numb as he rips away a twisted piece of the jeep’s frame to kneel, leaning in to scoop her out of the wreckage as carefully as he can.

Furious with worry and guilt, Kirk finds himself regretting his means of stopping Khan and the missile from escaping if only because Nyota has had to suffer them as well. The woman groans in his arms, seeming to slip in and out of consciousness as Kirk carries her over to a nearby boulder out of the way of the leaking, steaming wreck. No sooner has Kirk made sure that the injured woman is supported by the rock than the rustling of plants and the squelch of boots in mud sounds behind him, giving Kirk barely a second’s warning before he whips around to see Khan swinging a metal bar at his head.

Kirk doesn’t have the time to be impressed by Khan’s resiliency as he sidesteps the attack, barely dodging a blow that would have likely cracked open his skull. However, as Kirk tries to move out of range, his foot gets stuck where it’s sunken into the mud, nearly twisting his ankle as he falls backwards in what feels horrifyingly like slow motion. The entire world seems to lag as he just manages to get his arms behind him in time to cushion the impact, saving himself a head injury to the protesting of his wrists. Relief is short lived when Khan follows up by delivering a swift kick to the bottom of his chin, laying Kirk flat out on his back with a resounding snap that Kirk hears more than feels as the world starts to spin, the taste of iron exploding across his tongue.

Kirk forces himself to fight through the darkening of his vision and his sudden disorientation as he scoots blindly back and away from the advancing Khan, whose sinister chuckle is loud enough to be heard over the roar of the rain and the ringing in Kirk’s own ears. The American fumblingly draws the pistol from his thigh holster, weakly attempting to raise it at Khan as he squints against the dirt and water in his eyes, only to have the weapon kicked out of his hand.

They both move for the gun, the blow to Kirk’s head seeming to outweigh Khan’s very recent car crash in way of disorientation, the latter grabbing it with another laugh before the American has even gotten to his knees. Panic wells up inside of Kirk, all rational thought flooding away as he dizzily watches the barrel of his own pistol line up with his chest in the enemy’s hands, suddenly unable to move.

Just as Khan pulls back the hammer on the gun, the crackling of dry brush behind him makes the man whip around, the American forgotten. With rain splattering against his skull, his dark hair dripping over his furious eyes, stands Spock, holding the wrecked body of the motorcycle nearly above his head as if it weighs nothing. Khan only has time to get in a strangled shout before Spock hauls the machine at him. The throw falls short but catches the Italian off guard, knocking him back onto his haunches in the dirt. As Khan attempts to scramble to his feet, slipping in the mud, Spock pulls a knife from the sheath at his belt and charges.

As the Russian closes in, Khan manages to rise and swing Kirk’s gun towards Spock, only to have the motion blocked by the agent’s free hand as they come together, Spock keeping the barrel away from himself and pointed at the ground as he grips Khan’s wrist. Before Khan can so much as blink, Spock draws his other hand up and plunges the knife directly into the man’s chest, holding eye contact and baring his teeth in a snarl as the blade sinks between ribs.

Even from where he lies several yards away, Kirk can make out Khan’s strangled gasp and the wildfire in Spock’s eyes as the Russian yanks out the knife and watches calmly as Khan falls limply to the ground, clutching at the gushing wound in his chest.

Kirk dizzily forces himself to his knees, spitting out a globule of blood from the bite he’d given the inside of his cheek when he became acquainted with the toe of Khan’s boot. As the American watches his partner stand over their dying adversary, something small and blue catches Kirk’s eye. It’s a flat box, smaller than Kirk’s hand, and the agent slowly realizes that it must have fallen from Khan’s pocket at some point during the fight. It slowly dawns on Kirk that what he’s found has to be the disk with Doctor Uhura’s research, the one that contains all of the information about the nuclear warhead. Kirk pockets it almost absently, just as Spock turns his attention over to him.

“Jim,” Spock calls, jogging closer as concern takes over his usually impassive features. Kirk tries to smile as he raises a shaky hand, aware of the way blood must be streaking his teeth but thoroughly past caring.

“I'll be alright, Spock,” he promises, accepting the Russian’s help and allowing himself to be pulled up off of the ground, almost directly into Spock’s chest. Kirk’s balance is off, and his ego hardly a priority as he lets himself slump. Spock’s own hands bracketing his shoulders are the only thing keeping the American from sinking fully into his partner’s arms. Kirk looks up at Spock with wide, admiring eyes instead, merely inches between them. They’re both filthy and exhausted, but standing close together like this now, Kirk can’t seem to stop his smile from growing into a grin, no matter how his bitten cheek complains, or how manic he must look.

Spock is here, a ragged voice inside of him persists, Spock is safe. Those two facts brilliantly blind out all of the others, taking up precedence in Kirk’s mind as he rests in his partner’s grip.

Nyota, from what he can tell, should recover, though they will be having words about the faults of keeping secrets. They have the bomb, and Kirk the disk, which Spock will hopefully never have to know about. The American is just beginning to accept that all three of them will live to speak of it even as Khan draws his last breaths, sent to meet his maker by Spock’s own hand. Spock who is here, the same voice repeats, Spock who has saved him, again.

When Spock looks at him, his hands are searingly warm, even through all of Kirk’s rain soaked layers. The Russian is smiling back at him, small and quiet, the emotion living more in his eyes than his mouth in the way Kirk is just beginning to understand as his heart seems to melt in his chest.

“That was quite a display you put on there, Vulcan,” Kirk teases, watching excitedly as Spock’s cheeks color, his brown eyes holding firm on blue ones despite the twitch of his jaw. “Who knew I was worth all the trouble?”

“Despite our countries’ political standings, I did not wish to see you die,” Spock admits, voice softer than Kirk had expected it to be.

A warm laugh bubbles up from Kirk’s chest as he shakes his head, letting it fall forward to press against Spock’s solid chest, gazing down at their muddy boots, the toes nearly touching.

“Seems like a little bit of overkill to me,” Kirk whispers, head jerking up with mild surprise when Spock’s hands slide down from Kirk’s shoulders to his elbows, squeezing gently.

“The nature of my actions should not be considered superfluous, given your situation when I arrived. Ensuring your safety only ensures my own,” Spock argues stiffly while Kirk quietly glows, enjoying Spock’s attempts to justify killing a man for him.

“I—For a moment, I feared that I had reached you too late,” Spock adds, voice suddenly vulnerable in a way that catches Kirk off guard.

“I never doubted you,” Kirk says, trying to school his face into a mask of seriousness, the corners of his mouth fighting against his best efforts to look earnest, no matter how much he is under the guise of teasing. “That’s what I was doing when you got here actually. Keeping him distracted so you could save the day.”

Spock turns his head, looking away for a moment as the man, Kirk would swear on his life, battles off a laugh.

“I would question your sanity if only you did not have such a penchant for getting yourself out of situations you have no statistical likelihood of surviving,” he scoffs instead. The Russian’s eyes slide back to Kirk’s in his peripheral, bright and warm as he says, “You almost make me believe in luck, Captain.”

“Oh?” Kirk returns, allowing himself the chuckle that Spock won’t as he continues, absolutely certain that he’s staring at Spock as if the man himself had hung the stars in the sky. “Well then, Vulcan, I guess with how many times you’ve saved my hide by now, you almost have me believing in miracles.”

For once, Kirk manages to not care that the emotion ruling his features isn’t a deliberately crafted one, but genuine affection for Spock that he hopes is translating.

Spock flushes again and opens his mouth to respond when a quiet groan from Nyota cuts into the quiet, and Kirk suddenly remembers how severely the woman might be injured. As if by mutual agreement, Kirk and Spock break away, both drawn to the third agent still lying propped against the rock where Kirk had left her. Her eyes are closed as she lets her head loll against the boulder, causing burning shame and regret to flash through Kirk once more.

“I had to crash into the car to stop Khan,” Kirk explains, unsure of who he’s even talking to, if he’s offering an explanation to soothe his own guilt, or to justify himself to Spock. The Russian kneels with Kirk at Nyota’s side, checking her pulse and feeling her forehead without moving her from her position. There are no obviously broken bones, though Spock does discover the nasty bump on Nyota’s head, still oozing blood from where the impact had split the skin.

“She will recover, Jim,” Spock assures him gently, the both of them stilling at the sound of approaching chopper blades. The looming helicopter is clearly marked as belonging to the RAF, and Kirk feels himself sag with relief. Pike is here to fetch them, and hopefully takie the bomb off their hands so they can all go home.

As the helicopter touches down about a hundred yards away, Nyota fights her way into consciousness, blinking up at Kirk, who has taken to holding her hand while Spock hovers at her other side.

“Hey, help’s here,” Kirk promises, attempting to speak gently despite the loudness of their rescue. She rolls her eyes and tugs her hand bilergantly out of Kirk’s.

“Did you have to make him flip the car?” She complains, drawing a traitorous not-smile out of Spock.

“Glad to see you’re doing just fine,” Kirk intones dryly, though he feels his own smile slowly returning. If Nyota is alright enough to pretend like her relationship with him is more hate than love, Kirk knows he has little reason to be worried.

Once the helicopter blades slow down enough, the bay door slides open and a team pours out, picking their way over to the injured agents and the wreckage. Kirk is just glad that running Khan off the road hadn’t been enough to trigger the warhead in the back, and there’s enough of the three of them leftover to patch up.

Kirk and Spock both stand, the Russian helping Nyota up when she reaches out one hand despite what is probably in her best interest, allowing her to rest her weight on his arm. Pike’s team begins to comb the area as the injured trio picks their way over to the helicopter. When they get close enough, a pretty blonde medic spots the agents and ushers the three of them to sit.

Kirk sits first, near the hinge of the door so he can lean against it if need be and Spock follows. Kirk is less than gracious about moving over, holding his ground despite the several inches of unclaimed space between his thigh and the door, forcing Spock to sit in such a small gap between himself and Nyota that the American may as well have offered up his lap as a seat. The Russian settles in with his side pressed against Kirk’s, allowing Nyota a small measure of space that he does not grant the American. Kirk smiles to himself despite the pain in his mouth. Even soaking wet, Spock feels like a furnace, and Kirk shamelessly leans into the contact.

The blonde medic comes hurrying back with a man behind her who is clearly the doctor in charge, clutching a triage bag under one arm and scowling like someone has just spat in his drink. The doctor looks the three of them up and down one by one, keeping himself at arm’s length while the blonde waits patiently at his side.

“Alright, I’m Doctor McCoy and this is Nurse Chapel. Now, there’s three of you and two of us, meaning one of you is gonna have to sit and ripen for a minute,” he commands, eyes narrowed as if daring them to lie to him.

“Nyota was unconscious for a while, you should start with her, and Spock was in a motorcycle crash,” Kirk asserts immediately. “I can wait. Please,” he adds, receiving a grateful look from Nyota and a small scowl from Spock.

“Alright. Christine, you take the lady, and I’ll start with him,” McCoy continues, nodding at Spock and looking through his bag for the proper medical supplies.

Since he’s not immediately being prodded at, Kirk gets a moment to observe the doctor as he begins to look Spock over, noting his careful hands despite his gruff greeting. McCoy’s nearly coiffed hair makes an interesting contrast to the stubble dusting his pinched features, brows drawn together with concentration as he dabs at a mysterious gash over Spock’s eyebrow.

“Well, Sawbones, how bad’s he got it?” Jim asks, jerking his chin towards Spock.

McCoy waves a roll of gauze at Jim like he’s brandishing a weapon, while using his free hand to continue digging in the medical bag without looking.

“Listen, kid. You’re lucky your boyfriend here got away with only a couple scrapes, and you didn’t get your own insides pulverized, trying for some kind of harebrained stunt with that hellborn contraption,” the doctor says, pointing an accusatory finger in the vague direction of the wrecked heap of vehicles. Spock opens his mouth, probably to counter the boyfriend remark, but the doctor steamrolls over him.

“And don’t get me started on you,” McCoy berates, attention zeroing in on Spock again as slips a needle into the skin of the Russian’s forehead, stitching it up without warning. “What were you thinking, getting on one of those death traps without a helmet?!”

“I apologize, Doctor. Had I known it would have been an inconvenience to you personally I would have first found the proper safety equipment before attempting to secure a rogue nuclear warhead,” Spock’s retorts, accent thickening as his voice sinks deeper, the way it always does when he’s particularly displeased.

McCoy merely snorts in response, clearly unintimidated.

“Too busy saving the world? That’s your excuse?” He snorts again, seemingly just because of how obviously it had annoyed Spock the first time. “Sounds a little dramatic, if you ask me.”

“I did not ask you,” Spock bites back, glaring at Kirk when the American ‘s attempt to stifle a laugh fails miserably. “Furthermore,” Spock proceeds, his attention returning to the actual source of his irritation, “the word ‘dramatic’ being used as an insult seems highly hypocritical, considering its source.”

The doctor peers up from his handiwork, refusing to disagree as his expression skirts the line of impressed.

“My best bet is that there’s four damn concussions between the three of you. I suggest you leave the judgements to me, unless you’d like to clean up your own mess,” the doctor offers to Spock, pretending to hold out the needle still attached to the thread that’s only half sewn up the Russian’s arm.

There’s a moment that Kirk thinks he may have to intervene, as entertaining as the two of them are, he would like to see a bed again at some point, and he’s not sure either of the two men are capable of knowing when to quit. Spock eyes him Kirk subtly, and the American is left to wonder if it’s his pleading expression that causes the Russian to relent, quite literally biting his tongue if the offset of his jaw is to be believed, as McCoy gets back to work without further comment.

By the time the doctor is finished with Spock and has moved on to Kirk, the men crawling all over the marsh seem to be settling down. Without preamble, Pike emerges from a smaller door near the nose of the helicopter and glances at the agents before one of his men from the team inspecting the missile jogs over and engages him in a conversation.

After a lengthy discussion, the older man dismisses the agent and walks over to Kirk’s team with a deep sigh, wearing a tired smile on his face.

“Be gentle, Doctor McCoy. I need them in tip-top shape for the next round of fun,” Pike advises, a dimple appearing in one of his cheeks as his smile grows more playful.

“Men and women aren’t made to have their heads cracked around like melons ‘till kingdom come, Pike, _Jesus_ Christ.”

The American hides a snicker behind the back of his hand, reinvigorated by the volatile doctor’s frankly admirable energy and vitriol. Kirk is happy to note that he still seems to have his sense of humor intact despite the way his body’s started falling to pieces after what he’s been putting it through these past few days.

When McCoy begins to pack up his bag, Kirk is almost sorry to see him go, already forming a plan on how to convince Marcus that he should recruit the doctor for their own team once they all get home. Christine and Nyota seem to have gotten on well too, and from what Kirk can tell, his female partner is already feeling considerably better.

“See you around, Sawbones,” Kirk calls, taking no offense to McCoy’s overall disapproval of the team and their rash decisions as a whole, flashing the man one of his brightest smiles. Spock glowers at Kirk’s side while Nyota looks on with passive interest.

McCoy pauses to level Kirk with a glare that broadcasts exactly what he thinks about Kirk’s intellectual capacity.

“You’ve got yourself a right pair of dumbasses, Chris,” McCoy begins loudly, shouldering his bag as he turns towards Pike and tosses a thumb in the agents’ direction. “Don’t have the good sense their mamas gave ‘em. Doctor’s advice: I’d make your returns while you’ve still got the receipt.”

Pike responds with a warm chuckle and a twinkle in his eye as he shakes both his head and the doctor’s hand.

“Thank you, Doctor McCoy, but I have to admit, I’m quite the fan of their unconventional styles. ”

McCoy lets out an inelegant huff.

“Whatever you say, sir,” he grumbles, gesturing for Chapel to follow as he leaves his patients behind.

“Well done, everyone,” Pike begins, having waited until the medical staff is out of earshot. “Nyota, it’s good to see you. You had us worried.” He then nods to Kirk and Spock in turn adding a genuine, “I appreciate your two fetching her for us.”

“Thank you for sending them for me, sir,” Nyota returns politely, leaving Kirk to marvel at the way she adeptly avoids assigning them credit. To be fair, upon finding her, he did immediately almost kill her.

Pike hums his reply and crosses both arms over his chest.

“Yes, a very merry reunion. There is just one small snag,” Pike hedges, expression tight.

“You’ve managed to acquire the wrong warhead.”

Kirk blinks owlishly, staring at Pike as he waits for the punchline of the man’s very poor joke, his stomach dropping out when nothing comes but silence. The American turns to glance at Spock, hoping he isn’t the only one subjected to this unreal twist of fate, but is met only by his partner’s blank stare mirroring his own. Nyota groans and lowers her head into her hands.

—————

“So it’s a decoy?” Kirk asks, voice pained as he and Spock stand once more on the bridge of the aircraft carrier with Pike and his top officers. Nyota is sitting in the captain’s chair, a compromise between Doctor McCoy’s orders for her to remain on bedrest and her adamantly refusing to be ordered out of helping. Kirk is still trying to figure out how he feels towards her, caught between being upset about her acting as a double agent and understanding the nature of their business is to put orders above emotional ties. More than a small part of him is simply impressed, whether he would willingly admit it to her or not, that she managed to fool both him and Spock with such ease.

“No, it’s a real bomb,” Pike replies with a sigh. “It’s quite a nasty one too, but it’s not nuclearized. There’s no uranium in it.”

“There were two warhead in the lab,” Nyota pipes up, eyes bright despite her tired face. “I believe my father had a plan to keep the nuclearized warhead from reaching enemy hands. There is a mechanism built into both bombs. They are designed to lock onto each other, if necessary. One bomb can be sent to strike the other, to trigger a double explosion for twice the impact in a singular location. If you want to stop the submarine from picking up the nuclear warhead, sending the bomb we have in our possession to blow it up might be the only chance we have to stop them. The only issue is that the coupling technology is still fairly inaccurate. We would need to know almost the exact location of the other warhead to send ours in the correct direction.”

Pike seems to deliberate for a moment, but then reaches for a radio headset and promptly establishes contact with his pilots on the aircraft carrier’s deck. Flights are organized at his command, sent to patrol the immediate surroundings for any boats on a trajectory that might have feasibly originated from the Singh’s island.

Hours of searching go by, in which Nyota is ordered to retire from the bridge so that Doctor McCoy can check her over again, and Pike’s teams come up with nothing that brings them any closer to finding out where the Singhs might have taken the missile for their rendezvous with the submarine. With Khan dead, Kirk knows that Marla must be the one facilitating the exchange with the Germans, but none of the information he has gathered on her germinates any ideas either.

Looking exhausted, Pike borrows the chair of the ship’s captain, a man who seems to recognize the fatigue on their faces for what it is, not commenting as they each take their turn in his seat without bothering to ask.

“Did you run all the checks that I asked for?” Pike sighs, looking to Lieutenant DeSalle, who is currently manning the scanners.

“Radar, sonar, aerial patrols—all report no other vehicles have left the island since last night. That includes submarines,” DeSalle reports dutifully.

Beside Kirk, who has been leaning against the wall for the better part of the hour feeling useless, Spock straightens up and takes a step forward, the light of an epiphany in his eyes.

“Have you considered investigating the boats leaving the mainland?” the Russian suggests, looking around the bridge to meet a selection of clueless stares. Lips pursing in frustration, Spock continues, though his voice remains toneless, if slightly condescending, although Kirk’s ear may be particularly sensitive to that infliction.

“If the bomb is leaving the island, then it would be erroneous to presume that the boat transporting it must be on the island to begin with,” Spock explains. “Another vessel could have left from the mainland to pick it up.”

Spock’s revelation dawns on the crew slowly, faces shifting from confusion to excited elation one by one.

“Spock, you’re a genius,” Kirk breathes, pushing off from the wall to squeeze Spock’s shoulder. The Russian rewards him with a small, private smile, his muscles remaining loose under the touch, even as Kirk’s hand slowly drags down the length of arms in lieu of simply pulling away.

At Pike’s command, a flurry of officers begin to furiously change tactics, and the shipping manifest for the Singh facilities on the mainland quickly rustled up by Lieutenant Desalle, who approaches from the bustle to lay a few sheets of paper out on the desk before Pike. Kirk moves to stand at the table’s opposite end, unwilling to be left out, and Spock follows closely behind.

“The boats go out every morning at dawn from the Singh’s mainland facilities,” DeSalle announces, gesturing to a manifest of ship names.

“How many are there?” Spock asks, nearly pressed to Kirk’s side as he leans in, their arms tangling as the Russian attempts to read the list upside down.

“Almost one hundred individual boats go out every day for routine shipping and equipment tests,” DeSalle replies.

“They’ll be spread out over a sixty kilometer radius by now,” Pike interjects irritably. “And that distance is expanding every minute.”

“Narrowing down our options is our own logical option, we have neither the time or the resources to locate and search each vessel on the harbor’s manifest,” Spock explains what they’re all already thinking.

Another agent approaches to offer Pike a rueful smile.

“The Reichsmarchall Submarine surfaces at 0800, sir. Current time: 0700.”

“Give us twenty minutes, gentlemen,” Pike sighs, looking agitated as he dismisses a majority of the bridge crew back to their stations, though Kirk and Spock remain where they are. The entire team quiets down forlornly, everyone feeling the weight of the dead end they’ve seemed to reach.

Kirk runs both hands through his now tacky hair and scowls, breaking away from Spock for a moment to give himself some much needed space if he’s to think. He is absolutely unwilling to admit defeat after they’ve come so far, sacrificing so much only let the bomb slip through the tips of their fingers in the final hour. He forces himself to mentally dig through every line of information he’d gathered about Khan and Marla Singh, the Singh Shipping and Aeronautics, Rudi Von Trulsch, Doctor Uhura, and any other bit of military or CIA intel he can think of.

The idea hits Kirk out of nowhere, a burst of light in the dark, and the American drops his hands to whirl around on his heel and nearly stumbles in his haste. The sudden commotion draws the attention of Pike as well as Spock, who looks like he wants to reach out and steady Kirk, or potentially guide him into a chair.

“_Botany Bay_,” Kirk breathes, practically bouncing in place with the excitement of his revelation. Though he is only met with questioning stares, the American remains undeterred.

“That’s Sergio Khan’s old fishing boat. It’s the only one on the list that I can draw even the vaguest connection to. Unless someone has a better idea, and I’d be more than willing to hear it. If not, I’d suggest we start there,” Kirk explains, “There was a model of the boat at the Singh party and a photo in Marla’s office. I’m certain.”

It seems that perhaps his unfortunate snag at the party had done more than gain him Marla’s attention. If Kirk is right about his suspicion, then his observant habits may have won them the success of the mission.

“Pike, can we get that ship on the radio?” Kirk asks when no one protests, a new idea dawning on him. Spock meets Kirk’s eyes, and the American is startled to find the other man’s expression slowly mirroring his own in a knowing smile. They’ve gotten frighteningly good at picking up on what the other is thinking in the past few days, and Kirk can just tell that Spock already worked his way to the end of his plan.

“Can you get a bearing from the radio signal?” Pike asks, catching on quickly as he glances back and forth between the two agents who only seem to have eyes for each other. Spock nods and turns to face Pike with a level, determined expression, smile melting away as Kirk falls from his sight.

“It is possible, though we will have to keep them broadcasting long enough for the signal to be tracked,” Spock confirms.

It’s all the reassurance Pike needs before he’s back on his own radio, changing his orders and instructing everyone under his command to begin searching the seas for the _Botany Bay_.

The wait is tense, with bridge personnel partaking in quick exchanges with agents in the field and relaying the most relevant information to Pike. Meanwhile, Kirk and Spock are forced to standby, although the Russian makes more efficient use of his time, rewiring a panel on the ship’s radio to boost its signal and enable it to zero in on the _Botany Bay_ with greater accuracy, if they ever manage to establish contact. Kirk keeps close, hovering over Spock’s shoulder occasionally, or distractedly admiring the way the Russian’s still damp trousers emphasize the shape of his ass, though he’s careful not to let himself be caught looking.

At one point, Pike relays to them that Nyota has decided to resolutely ignore Doctor McCoy’s orders to rest in favor of joining of the engineering team on the aircraft carrier’s deck, working to prep their missile for launch. Everything that their team can possibly do to make things go right seems to be handled, with Spock finishing up his modifications, but their window is closing fast. It’s nearly 0800, and there’s been no sign of the Botany Bay.

When an officer on the bridge begins pressing buttons with alarming speed and calls for Pike, Kirk’s heart begins to race and he blindly reaches out to clutch at Spock’s forearm with a mixture of anxiety and not yet founded relief. The Russian glances at Kirk, eyes unreadable, but doesn’t pull away as he uses his other arm to close the last panel on his jury-rigged radio. They’ve spotted and hailed the Botany Bay.

“Ten minutes and counting,” someone shouts, while Pike waves Kirk over to his headset.

“Mister Kirk, this is your cue,” the older man calls, remaining collected despite the tense line of his shoulders. Pike steps aside with a welcoming gesture the way one might offer a podium to a colleague after a lengthy introduction.

Kirk reluctantly lets go of this partner’s arm, forced to do so as he walks over to the table where radio sits and settles the headset over his ears with a final look to Spock. The agent nods at him before focusing on the instrument he’s practically just rebuilt, as Kirk allows himself a deep focusing breath. It’s Kirk’s job to keep them on the line long enough to give Spock’s device a fighting chance, and he’s not going to give his best performance if he allows himself to be distracted by the way the Russian adorably scrunches his eyebrows together when he’s concentrating.

“_Botany Bay_, this is James Kirk,” he begins, voice stronger than he feels, pulling out every trick in his personal arsenal, the attitude of ‘unwarrantedly smug,’ being an old favorite of his that he dons like a well-worn coat.

“Hello, Marla,” he starts again after no response. “I suspect that you’re already listening in, so I’ll give you this message directly. I thought you’d like to know that earlier today, I killed your husband.”

It’s a lie, of course. Spock had been the one directly responsible for Khan’s death, a fact which Kirk is immeasurably grateful for, considering it had been to save his own life, but he needs Marla’s attention and anger focused at him. There’s also the chance that this might not at all work, and if Marla does get away, Kirk figures there’s no sense in her knowing about Russian’s hand in her husband’s death.

Against the silence, Kirk sharpens his angle of attack.

“I’d like to report that Khan died honorably, courageously, and selflessly—that he was a great man, worthy of his noble death. But he didn’t, and he wasn’t. Instead, it was one of the most pitiful things I’ve ever seen. I mean, I hate to tell you this, but there were tears involved. Begging, offers to trade anything, or anyone, so that I would spare his life. It was sad, really, Marla. You should have seen his face.”

More lies of course, as Khan hadn’t even had time to utter so much as a squeak before Spock had swooped in to save Kirk, but the words must hit a nerve, because Marla’s dulcet tones crackle into being over the radio connection.

“James.”

Kirk lights up as he turns around again to meet Spock’s gaze, feeling a thrill of electricity shoot down his spine at the heated look tinged with pride that Spock levels him with at their small success. Now that they have Marla on the line from the Botany Bay, all Kirk needs to do is keep her talking, as the woman’s presence on that particular ship means that the warhead is almost undoubtedly there as well. There is no other feasible reason for Marla to be so far out at sea on her father-in-law’s antiquated fishing boat at this hour, other than to escort a high class weapon and execute a deal with the Germans.

Spock’s fingers fly over the instruments with practiced ease, as if he operates on the bridge of British aircraft carriers every day of the week, while Kirk bites his lip so hard he’s sure he’ll break through the skin.

“I appreciate your message, and now I hope you’ll appreciate mine,” Marla continues, livid if her icy tone is any indication of her true feelings. “Any blood relation of yours still living, anyone you claim to love, will be dead within the year. They will die slowly and painfully. And you know from personal experience, this is an area in which we excel. There is nothing you will be able to do but witness their suffering as you await your own death, which I will save for last. This I vow on my husband’s soul.”

Marla’s words lack their intended luster when Kirk knows they’re last ones she’ll ever be speaking. The gravity of her threat might have shaken Kirk, on any other day, surrounded by any other group of people. That is, if Kirk weren’t relying near solely on the skills of the two most talented souls he’s ever known. The American has absolutely no doubt that if there’s a way to trace this conversation, then Spock is the one person in the universe to flawlessly accomplish the task. Knowing Nyota is out there too, green lighting the go of the homing devices, gives Kirk a comfort that is more than warranted. For Kirk’s part, if anyone should be in charge of keeping a woman interested, he’s the man for the job. With their combined skills, Kirk would be more surprised if their team didn’t work even better than reasonable expectations would allow.

“Won’t you have to inform your organization for that?” The American proposes wryly, knowing that the bait he poses will intrigue and frighten the woman on the other end.

“After we deliver the warhead you so desperately sought out, that will be the first item on my agenda. And you will die, Kirk, knowing you have failed completely. We have the doctor’s disk,” Marla boasts, as the disk in Kirk’s own pocket suddenly seems to increase its weight tenfold. “We can build as many bombs as we need.”

Kirk takes a moment to wonder if Marla and Khan had bothered to make more than one copy of the disk, and if Marla really has one at all, or if the woman is just bluffing. In either case, Kirk knows better than to challenge her, and is also unwilling to give away the fact that he currently holds information that would bring several nations to their knees. No one, especially not Spock, needs to know what Kirk has found.

Before Kirk can climb his way to the next conversational branch, Spock lifts his head from his station to give Pike a decidedly final looking nod, and the sudden roaring noise rattling the bridge windows from the deck below tells Kirk all that he needs to know.

“Well, Marla, I see one flaw in that plan.”

“Entertain me.”

“While you’ve been telling me how dangerous you are, we’ve been locking on to your radio signal. Now we have your general location,” Kirk begins sweetly.

“It won’t help you much. I’ll be gone in five minutes,” Marla vows, haughty in her ignorance. She thinks that Kirk intends to track her down in his own boat to make another attempt at reclaiming the warhead, but they’re past that now, thanks to Nyota and their non-nuclearized warhead.

“Oh, I haven’t finished,” Kirk hums. “The coupling device that you so considerably left us on your decoy warhead is accurate to about ten feet. That missile, although not nuclear, shouldn’t have any trouble obliterating, say, a medium sized fishing boat. Especially if said fishing boat is also harboring, say, an actual nuclear device. The aforementioned bomb launched about, oh… thirty five seconds ago, which gives you nearly fifteen seconds until impact. If you want to make good on your vow to me, and all of my loved ones, I suggest you abandon ship immediately,” Kirk explains primly. “How’s that for entertainment?”

The settled boom and fiery plume that rises up from the distant horizon signals the destruction of the _Botany Bay_ and the effective end of Kirk’s conversation. Spock rises from his station to smile shyly at Kirk amidst the rowdier cheers of the bridge crew, obviously pleased by the success of the mission and their position of safety, long out of range of any radiation damage. While the commotion dies down, the Russian approaches him with a quiet heat in his eyes, reaching up to remove the headset from Kirk’s person.

“You performed quite admirably, Captain. Though I must ask, how did you know that she would believe you?” Spock’s asks with his eyes resolutely focused on earpiece that still resides in his hands.

“Honesty is always the best way to go,” Kirk replies with a grin. “It’s always easier to sound convincing if you believe what you’re saying yourself.”

He can see Spock’s raised eyebrow, even with the Russian’s ducked head, encouraging him to continue.

“Well, it was mostly true. I may not have delivered the final blow to Khan, but someone had to be the prince slaying the dragon for the princess. She didn’t have to know who was who. ”

Spock’s lips curl inwards as he bites back a smile, losing the war thoroughly as he twists his mouth up, trying to force the grin to the shape of a grimace only to face defeat there too.

“You are insufferable,” the Russian finally gets out, the tone of his voice betraying a high level of poorly veiled praise.

“And irresistible, as I’ve just proven.”

Kirk expects a fight, a half cruel comment about the overestimation of one’s worth. Instead, he’s only offered long overdue eye contact from eyes a particularly glorious shade of brown, a knowing smirk from pink lips, and a, “Perhaps,” from Spock that’s almost enough to bring Kirk to his knees.


	9. Take Care of Business

When the mission under Pike’s direction finally comes to an end, Spock finds himself relieved that both he and Agent Kirk are dismissed. However, he is less enthusiastic when he considers the fact that because they have been released to the mainland, they will soon rendezvous with their handlers and be forced to go their separate ways. Nyota has been ordered to stay on the ship with the rest of the British intelligence team, under the dedicated medical attention of Doctor McCoy. Despite the less than ideal circumstances in which they have met and grown to know each other, Spock finds himself regretful that he will most likely never find cause to see her again.

Kirk appears forlorn at the departure as well, wrapping Nyota in a fierce hug that has the woman batting ineffectually at the back of his head, though her smile and slightly watery eyes betray her true feelings of fondness. When it comes time for Spock to field the emotional farewells, he is privately pleased that when he offers Nyota a simple wave goodbye, the woman closes in to wrap her slender arms around him for a brief hug instead, whispering her thanks as she does so.

The excessively sentimental departure leaves Spock in a pensive mood as he and Agent Kirk return to the hotel to collect their limited effects.

When they reach the lobby, Kirk offers Spock a tight, tired smile and claps him on the arm before turning away to climb the stairs to make for his own room, parting ways without a word. The puzzling lack of suggestive remarks or gratuitous commentary signaling the significance of their final interaction leaves Spock bereft, standing alone and blinking in the bustling foyer. He had expected another overzealous display, perhaps yet another offer to join Kirk for a drink, or, much to Spock’s shame, he had even hoped for an embrace not unlike the ones they had both shared with Nyota. Even a simple “goodbye,” the normal false promises of staying in touch that people so often granted one another, would have soothed Spock’s illogical desire for closure with the American.

However, as he watches Kirk’s back disappear at the top of the stairs, Spock is forced to confront his current reality. The mission has finally run its full course, the adrenaline his systems had been flooded with is now beginning to instigate a crash, leaving him exhausted and lacking in judgement. He has let his own unacceptable attachments get the better of him, allowing them to form into vague hopes where his usual shields have been compromised. He should expect nothing from Kirk, and should certainly not desire anything from him either, and yet it would be even more irrational to pretend that both do not persist.

Despite the relative success of the mission, Spock is left with a sense of emptiness as he reflects upon his current mental state. Where there should be mostly concern for how Oleg will respond to his failure to procure the disk and relief at mission’s end meaning the opportunity to return to his preferred solo work, there is nothing. He finds he must manually remind himself that what they have just prevented may have just, in a quite literal sense, saved the world. He finds himself feeling more vacant than the usual level of calm control he normally operates at.

Spock’s mind settles once more on Agent Kirk, the most overtly wild variable in the recent days and therefore the most obvious choice of blame for his inability to focus. As he makes his way to his room, beginning the act of packing away his minimal belongings, folding each item of clothing meticulously and organizing his assigned gear with the utmost care, Spock finds himself continually distant from his physical motions.

His chess set catches his eye, still set upon the coffee table, noting a shift has been made in one of the pieces locations in his absence. A black knight has jumped forward in a dauntless move, a strategy that could easily take the white’s queen in several more plays if the counter was not deliberately careful. Spock studies the set, trying to guess how the remainder of the match would go with such limited knowledge of his opponent’s style, though he would cautiously award the victory to black — at great cost. He knows, of course, that the knight could have only been moved by Kirk’s hand, the same hand which would have had no problem unlocking its way into his room. It is the beginning of a breathtakingly simple strategy, one that the Russian would not have attempted himself, one that is so bold it almost dares for answer. At the overtaking desire to respond, Spock all at once realizes how deeply Agent Kirk has affected him.

The shrill ring of the telephone across the room startles Spock out his thoughts as he whips around to stare at the offending piece of technology for a full, stunned second before he moves to answer the call.

“Hello?”

“_Professor Uhura’s research disk. Do you have it?_”

The fact that Oleg is calling him mere moments after walking through the door is not surprising to Spock. If anything, the call is unforgivably late. Confusion, however, may pique at his handler’s already angered tone, proactively and assumingly sharp as he blames Spock for a failure to which he has not yet even admitted. Spock slips back into his native tongue, not sure what to think about how unused to the Russian language his tongue has become so quickly.

“_The disk was lost with Marla Singh and the fishing boat._”

“_Then why am I being told the American spy has it? That disk must be retrieved, Spock. We cannot afford to allow America the upper hand. That disk is the key to being the most powerful nation in the world. You will go, and complete your mission. Unless you would prefer to find yourself in Siberia, like your father. He is an embarrassment. You do not want to wear that kind of shame. Is that clear, Agent Spock? Get it done._”

Spock is numb as the words of acknowledgement fall from his mouth and he hangs up the phone with a clumsy click, his own words distant through the ringing of his ears, as if the actions belong to someone else. On autopilot, his feet carry him over to the couch, where the partially played chessboard still rests on the coffee table. The hand with fingers tapping an agitated tattoo against his thigh snaps out suddenly and violently, as Spock upturns the board with a shout that he hardly registers as his own.

Carved ivory pieces scatter where they bounce angrily off of the wall, the board disappearing behind overstuffed furniture with a cacophonous clatter. Spock’s chest is heaving, blood still rushing in his ears when he finally looks down past his balled fists, to where the black knight rests against the edge of his shoe, and something within him breaks.

—————

A heavy, evenly spaced knock sounds on Kirk’s ajar door, propped open to better hear a bellhop coming down the hall, as the American has been hoping to snag one to carry his bags. The weight of the rapping knuckles connecting with the wood with such precise intention leaves Kirk smiling. He somehow knows without even looking up from the clothes he’s folding whose hand is requesting entrance.

“Come in,” Kirk calls, his voice steady despite the sudden burst of butterflies in his stomach at the idea of facing his handsome partner once more. He had last left the Russian without any sort of significant goodbye, unable to accept that their time together had already run out. He had told himself that the scarce hour or so he had left before he would be expected to report to Marcus would be enough to make something out, inspiring Kirk to quickly finish packing while mentally putting together his report for the CIA.

An internal battle had raged over whether he should stop by Spock’s room. The Russian was owed his dues after all, and though Kirk knew he was too weak to resist on his own, there was the matter of whose schedule he was operating on. The American had never packed with such speed in all of his life, only it seems Spock has decided to intervene and save Kirk the trip.

Kirk brushes some imaginary lint off of his neatly pressed suit front as he turns around to face the door, a sunny smile on his face as he anticipates all of the usual good things that come with Spock conversations.

The Russian pushes open the heavy door in silence and steps into the room, looking Kirk’s way without meeting his eyes for the first time in what feels like forever. It makes Kirk immediately uneasy, distant alarm bells ringing in his head. The fluttering in Kirk’s stomach turns sour as he wonders if Spock has reset to his patriotism-inspired hatred of Kirk and is simply here to tell him that he is glad to be rid of the American with a succinct goodbye. Or, something like hope suggests, perhaps his former partner is simply experiencing the same difficulties at the thought of splitting ways as Kirk is.

Though, despite the many potential reasons for Spock’s odd behavior, there is one in particular that rings especially probable. And Kirk, he doesn’t like it one bit.

Forcing a smile, Kirk gestures to the small liquor cabinet along one wall and orders himself to relax.

“I’m just finishing up with my packing. Mind fixing us a couple of drinks?” Kirk tries, clearly a desperate attempt to get Spock to stay, a last-ditch effort to level the mood. If Spock would just accept his offer, just sit down so they could talk like civilized people — if they just took a moment to actually be themselves unguarded — Spock would see that it doesn’t have to be this way.

A quick scan of the Russian’s posture leaves Kirk’s heart aching in a new way. His muscles are tense all the way through his body, shoulders squaring off to compliment his wide stance, a subtle fighting position if Kirk’s ever seen one. The hard line of Spock’s jaw, obviously clenched, and the determined arch of his eyebrows, however, tell their own story.

This chapter, Kirk solemnly realizes, isn’t being penned by either of them, and he considers what his orders would be should their roles be reversed. A stupid, idealistic fraction of Kirk’s psyche refuses to believe it could end this way. A still smaller portion asks him if he’s even willing to still play his part if it does.

Adrenaline begins to creep into Kirk’s veins, his pulse already accelerating as Spock’s only response is a terse nod before the Russian robotically fills two crystal tumblers with Kirk’s whiskey.

“I guess it’s back to business as usual now,” he hums, falling embarrassingly short of the casual he’s aiming for as he turns his back to Spock, despite every base instinct screaming at him not to take his eyes off of the other agent and leave himself vulnerable. But retaining the appearance of nonchalance is Kirk’s best counter for whatever Spock is about to throw at him. Where the Russian has more than proven to outdo him in speed and strength, Kirk’s ability to talk his way out of unsavory situations has served him well. Even Spock has proven himself susceptible to such tactics in their brief working relationship. So Kirk allows himself to babble, appearing to speak aimlessly while in truth every word is a carefully constructed test, each meant to provoke Spock in a specific way so that Kirk can gauge his reactions.

“And I guess back to normal means we’re not friends anymore, huh? Politics being what they are,” Kirk continues, glancing warily at Spock over his shoulder, wearing a tight smile, knowing that it’s failed to reach his eyes.

And there it is: The elephant in the room, laid out in the open. Kirk knows he’s hit the nail on the head when something behind Spock’s expression seems to shutter, and the Russian chooses to stare resolutely at a point over Kirk’s left shoulder instead of looking him in the eye, removing the doubt he’d been hopelessly clinging to. Spock isn’t here for a social call, and now they both know it.

His already fragile alliance with Spock is over as far as the official reports are concerned, leaving no reason for the KGB not to have ordered their agent to finish Kirk off, tying up the final loose end. Worse, if the Russians somehow figured out that Kirk has obtained Doctor Uhura’s disk, there is almost no chance that Spock hasn’t been commanded to torture the intel out of Kirk, since a simple clean kill and a sweep of the room is no guarantee of finding it.

With Russia and America still at each other's throats, Kirk and Spock should be dire enemies, and they had been, quite vehemently, at the beginning of the mission. Before, the idea of betrayal from Spock had been ordinary, expected even. Now it just leaves a bitter taste in Kirk’s mouth and a sharp pang in his chest. Kirk can admit that he’s grown unreasonably attached to the slightly awkward, uptight agent, a deeper affection than even mutually saving each other’s lives could be credited for. He’s enjoyed witnessing Spock’s attempts at keeping his rage in check, only to watch him release it at the most inconvenient of times. He’s savored cataloging Spock’s expression shifts, the ever so subtle ones when he meets Kirk’s eyes, hidden warmth coming to the surface. He has relished in the strengths of Spock, the weaknesses, the obscure humor and the buried tenderness. And he’s… Kirk’s going to miss him.

But things are about to turn ugly, Kirk’s idiotic desires be damned.

Battering back the sudden sense of loss, Kirk swallows thickly and looks down at the suitcase he’s been filling on the bed. His small hand pistol had been tucked under a nearby pillow, but now Kirk discreetly draws it out to rehome it beneath a pair of folded trousers so that it’s more immediately within reach, should he be forced to use it. The precaution pains him, though Kirk is still desperately attempting to separate his emotions from the reality of the situation.

The sound of Spock’s shoes scuffing the carpet behind Kirk bring the agent back to the real world, reminding him that caution is paramount, considering what the other man is likely about to do. Squeezing his eyes shut and drawing in a slow, deep breath, Kirk bites his lip and makes the foolish decision for one last shot at preventing the world from crashing down around him, the secret he’s had tucked into his jacket’s inner pocket pressing against his ribs.

“Spock, I—“

The American is cut off when he turns around to find Spock less than a few inches away from him, eyes burning, startling Kirk as he nearly stumbles back into the footboard of the bed with a hissed, “_Shit._”

Panicked, Kirk reaches for his gun, grasp missing its mark as he’s jerked forward suddenly by Spock’s fists, gripping his collar. The breath is knocked out of him as he is dragged away from the bed, his back slammed into the nearby wall with a strangely unpleasant sense of deja-vu. Only this time, Spock isn’t pressing in to align them, remaining instead at arm’s length as his hands wrap around Kirk’s throat. Reacting on muscle memory and instinct, Kirk moves to slam his forearms down onto Spock’s locked elbows, dropping his weight for added force. It works, seeming to catch Spock off guard, breaking the man’s secure grip while reinstating Kirk’s air supply. With the Russian’s grip loosened, Kirk finds room to maneuver, throwing his weight into a twist that nearly manages to reverse their positions with a move that will likely leave bruises along Spock’s shoulder and side for weeks.

Spock is quick to fight back, unwilling to lose the upper hand, as his fingers once again knot into the front of Kirk’s shirt. Proving his superior strength, Spock manages to get a foot against the wall behind him, kicking off against it with such an impact that it sends the American hurling backwards, air punched out of Kirk’s lungs. The agents fall into a rough, messy scuffle on the floor, forcing Kirk to use every trick in his book just to stay afloat, Spock’s longer limbs and greater strength making him work harder than he’s used to in a fight.

When Spock finally slips up, giving Kirk the opportunity to swing his arms and smack both his palms over the Russian’s ears, the American takes advantage of his opponent’s pain-brought disorientation, scrambling on top of Spock while he has the opportunity. Although still recovering from the blow, Spock immediately tries to buck Kirk off from where’s he’s seated, straddling the Russian’s chest. He twists under Kirk, lashing out until the American manages to finally pin the other agent at the wrists.

“Would you _stop_ for a second?” Kirk barks, frustration rising up in him as his legs squeeze Spock’s torso, barely avoiding being thrown off. Spock only turns his head to glare furiously up at Kirk, who wisely keeps himself out of headbutt range.

“Why should I?” hisses Spock, the usual propriety of his language gone with the increased stress of the fight. “So that you will have enough energy left to efficiently dispose of my body?”

“No, you idiot,” Kirk growls, muscles working frantically to keep his place on top as Spock continues to struggle below him, not allowing himself any pause for what the American is trying to tell him. It’s clear that Spock is still fighting for his life, as he expects Kirk to be, and if he doesn’t relax soon, Kirk will be the one getting hurt. Kirk isn’t sure how long he can hold on, before it’ll be too late to get through to Spock.

“Please,” Kirk begs, “please, Spock, I don’t want to hurt you.” He’s holding onto the Russian’s wrists with white knuckle force now, surely leaving bruises in his wake.

A shift occurs in Spock’s movements, a lull before his hips begin again, with less fury, Kirk thinks, unless the desperation of his mind is playing tricks on him. He lets his leg muscles loosen as he relaxes his grip on Spock’s wrists, expression slipping from grim and determined to something more honest, if pitiful. Kirk leans in, down into the line of fire, unwilling to ask for vulnerability that he isn’t willing to give himself, even as Spock’s arms continue to try to pull free from his own.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I won’t,” Kirk promises again, knowing his whispered words sound ridiculous in their current setting.

It takes a second, but Kirk can almost see the instant that his words sink in and Spock stops struggling to blink up at him slowly, lips slightly parted. The Russian completely stills for a blessed moment, where Kirk doesn’t dare to hope, but then Spock starts to tug at where his wrists are pinned by Kirk’s more gently, almost like he’s asking for permission.

Against his better judgment, Kirk slowly releases his hands, and immediately regrets it. Taking advantage of Kirk’s more unbalanced frame, the Russian plants his feet on the ground and thrusts up, toppling Kirk over. The room whirls, and in one fluid motion, Kirk’s back hits the ground while Spock’s weight sinks down on top of him. Kirk bares his teeth in a grimace, though beyond all sense, he refuses to fight back. He notes the absence of Spock’s hands around his throat again, the lack of a knife between his ribs, knowing the Russian could have easily killed him three times by now. Instead the man just sits, almost casually, on Kirk’s torso, strong thighs pressed up against his flanks and long fingers wrapped around his wrists.

“I was sent to kill you,” Spock pants, eyes deep and immeasurably sad as he gazes down at Kirk beneath him.

Unable to help himself, the American barks out a laugh, shaking his head as he reasons, “Of course you were. Our missions were the same. Do what it takes to get the disk, no matter the cost.”

Kirk realizes his slip the moment Spock’s eyes flash with something dangerous, and his fingers tighten their hold on his wrists, making Kirk grit his teeth in pain.

“You have acquired it, then,” Spock breathes, voice tight.

Kirk looks up at Spock with wide, imploring eyes and makes his loosely clenched fists into open palms of supplicating surrender.

“I do, Spock. And I’m sorry,” Kirk explains, genuine as he watches Spock’s narrowed eyes dart between his own, and then down to his lips. Encouraged, Kirk continues.

“I didn’t want to have to tell you, but I didn’t lie about it either, so I just didn’t mention it. I knew what your orders would be, what I’d have to do to stop you. I… I didn’t want to put either of us through that.”

Spock holds Kirk’s gaze, something rigid yet brittle in his expression, strong now but ready to shatter at the slightest provocation.

“I am not a fool, Kirk. You simply mean that you did not want me to kill you,” he answers, as if it’s a warning.

“No, Spock. Because I don’t think you’ll do it,” Kirk finds himself whispering, words trailing off as something settles deep inside him, a bitter twist of pain living right alongside the bloom of genuine affection in his chest as he looks at Spock.

The Russian swallows with a quiet click, the reflexive gesture giving away the feigned nature of the suave nonchalance Spock is attempting to project as he raises an eyebrow and schools his expression into something masklike.

“How is it that you should be so certain?”

Kirk smiles sadly and allows his tongue to dart out to swipe away some of the salty blood that has gathered at the corner of his mouth, the bite in his cheek having reopened in their struggle. Spock’s eyes follow the motion before quickly honing in on Kirk’s own once more, narrowed again as if it will keep some of the obvious emotion rising up behind them at bay.

“Because, Spock. I know that if our roles were reversed, I’d never be able to do it to you,” Kirk begins, words tumbling out now that he’s gotten them started, eyes never leaving Spock’s.

“At some point during this mission, I did something against my better judgment, something I don’t think I could change now, even if I tried. And I think you did too.”

“And what is that, Captain?” Spock whispers, his entire body tense despite the growing tenderness in his voice, those deep, dark eyes Kirk has fallen for again and again betraying something behind the Russian’s tenuous control.

“I started caring for you,” Kirk returns, aching with the pain of a love unfulfilled, for a life he cannot truly have.

Spock sucks in a quick breath and becomes an abruptly approaching blur, filling Kirk’s vision. He barely has time to mentally prepare himself, a surprised noise leaving his throat when startlingly soft lips press to his own with an uncoordinated clack of teeth.

Kirk’s shock is quickly overshadowed by rapture when Spock’s lips make their first tentative move against his own, a low moan escaping him as Spock finds a better angle. It takes only a gentle press of a tongue against the seam of his lips and Kirk is surging up eagerly to deepen the kiss, helpless but to give in. One of Spock’s hands slips from Kirk’s wrist, sliding upwards for their palms to meet, before Spock intertwines their fingers, holding on just as desperately for entirely different reasons, like Kirk is something treasured and dear. The man’s other hand leaves Kirk’s other arm entirely, planting itself somewhere near his shoulder on the ground, granting Kirk freedom with an abundance of trust.

The American takes advantage of the situation to immediately reach up, pressing worshipful, eager fingertips to Spock’s side, touching everywhere he can reach and feeling the heavy, quick heartbeat against Spock’s ribs, even through all the layers of clothing. Spock makes a soft sound into the kiss, leaning into the heated touch.

When Spock finally draws back to take a breath, Kirk himself is feeling lightheaded. Almost giddy with pleasure, he looks up at Spock through his eyelashes, a tendril of heat creeping low into his stomach at the way Spock’s pupils are already blown wide, and the enticing shade his lips have flushed from their hurried kiss.

“Jim,” Spock whispers, an obvious plea for something, so full of reverence that it makes Kirk feel like he can barely breathe, in a way that has nothing to do with the very welcome weight of a grown man on his ribs.

“Tell me,” Kirk pleads, letting his eyes trail down his partner’s body as he slips a hand under Spock’s jacket, rucking up the cashmere sweater as his fingers trace the rises and falls of his ribcage before cupping his side, Kirk’s thumb finding his nipple and sweeping over the sensitive skin, just once. Spock shivers at the featherlight touch, the tender muscles in his side twitching like the flank of a racehorse beneath Kirk’s palm.

“I find myself drawn to you in a way that I cannot explain,” the Russian admits, voice cracking slightly as his eyes slip shut, chin tipped up as Kirk continues to explore and caress, admiring the lean lines of muscle under his fingertips as his hand is allowed to roam. The way Spock looks, like this, almost quaking above him, arched so perfectly and like putty in his hands, Kirk feels about ready to burst.

The man is shockingly gorgeous. He always has been, though now, with his stoic resolve stripped away at the dissolution of Kirk’s own arrogant persona, Spock’s beauty has opened up in a brand new light. Here, they are just themselves in a way Kirk has longed for so deeply, he hadn’t even realized the strength of it until now. With Spock’s shaking form above him, Kirk can hardly draw breath without every fiber of his being screaming for more.

“_I have wanted to get you back into my bed since the second you left it_,” Kirk admits, the Russian language flowing from his tongue with far more tenderness than he intends, the flirtatious nature of his words buried in the gentleness of truth as Spock’s eyes snap open again to bore directly into his.

It seems that the words, or the language they were spoken in, or perhaps the true, achingly deep emotion behind them, throw Spock into a renewed bout of fervor. Kirk barely has a moment’s warning before the man leans in again for a hungry kiss, alternating between nuzzling Kirk’s neck and kissing him as the hand not holding Kirk’s finds its way to the American’s chest. Kirk gasps when he feels a soft scrape of teeth against his flesh, arching up as Spock tugs at the lapels of Kirk’s suit and begins to methodically undo the buttons of his shirt.

“God, Spock,” Kirk breathes, slipping his hand out of Spock’s so that he can tug impatiently at Spock’s jacket at the same time, unwilling to wait until the other man’s hands are unoccupied to wrestle it off his shoulders. Spock finally pauses long enough in his task to let Kirk shuck the thing off before diving right back in to undo the last button of Kirk’s shirt. No sooner is it out of the way than Spock is pushing up Kirk’s undershirt, exposing his abdomen as admiring hands trace the contours of muscle as Spock shifts back to settle himself over Kirk’s hips for a better view.

Eager and unable to help himself at the new freedom, Kirk sits bolt upright, an arm curling around the back of Spock’s shoulder to steady him with the sudden readjustment of their positions. Spock offers no resistance when Kirk’s other hand finds the nape of his neck, gently pulling the Russian in for another kiss and holding him there, their torsos pressed together and Spock’s arms around his waist.

With Spock in his lap, it’s impossible to ignore the desire between them, Spock purposely grinding down against Kirk’s hardness, with his own pressing against Kirk’s stomach through the not nearly thin enough material of the Russian’s pants. Kirk gasps against Spock’s lips, and the other man takes the opportunity to lick his way inside, Kirk’s hips jumping upwards at the sensation, desperate as he kisses back, greedy and breathless.

Much too fast, Spock breaks away, eliciting an impatient whine from Kirk, who is still clutching at Spock as if he can draw the other man into himself through sheer force of will.

”Bed, now,” Spock growls in Kirk’s ear, ducking his head to nip at the tender skin behind Kirk’s jaw, moving at a maddeningly slow pace as he nibbles his way down and begins to suck a mark at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Pleasantly stunned, Kirk can only nod his enthusiastic assent as his eyes flutter shut, his usual habit of running his mouth muted by whatever magic Spock’s mouth seems to be working on him.

The other man rises quickly from Kirk’s lap at the gesture, reaching out a hand to tug him up off the floor before practically throwing Kirk onto the bed. The American lets out a breathless laugh, landing on his back before quickly propping himself up on his elbows to scoot towards the center of the mattress, nearly tangling himself in the unbuttoned shirt and loose suit jacket dangling off of his shoulders. Not far behind, Spock climbs on top of him, following Kirk on hands and knees with a gaze that feels like a physical sensation, hot enough to burn.

Kirk takes a second to lose the layers over his torso and kick off his shoes. Spock grants him just enough room as he does the same, eyes tracing every inch of exposed skin, tracking the constellations of faint scars on the American’s body. The way Spock looks at him like he’s something precious and fascinating makes Kirk feel warm in a way that goes beyond just lust, beyond the feelings of even partnership or friendship, makes him burn and hope beyond all reason that the other man means it.

As much as Kirk enjoyed flirting with anyone who would bite, and falling into bed with those select few who actually managed to catch his fancy, he realizes that he has never felt as wholly vulnerable or wanted as he does now, with Spock. Spock, the man who has proven to be capable of piercing the layers of persona that Kirk has spent years wrapped up in like armor. Spock, who easily looked past the misdirection of ego, exposing Kirk’s lingering feelings of inadequacy and the shadow of a more troubled past without shying away. It feels as if Spock sees him, no matter how hard Kirk does his best to hide.

Now, with the desire to lay bare raging inside of him, the American wonders if there’s anything left he doesn’t crave for Spock to see.

“You are beautiful, Jim,” Spock whispers, catching Kirk by surprise as he prowls closer, miles of skin bared and his fly already undone. Whatever is left of Kirk’s usual braggadocio falls away, flirtatious remarks dying on his tongue at the way Spock is looking at him. The man is unreal, and suddenly, for the first time in his life, Kirk doesn’t know what to do with himself in bed, feeling as though Spock has short circuited something critical inside of his brain, leaving only consuming want and affection in its wake.

Cheeks flushed and breathing already ragged, Kirk stops attempting to think and simply leans up to kiss Spock again instead, pouring every emotion and thought he cannot say into the connection as his hands gently cradle the side of Spock’s face. The other man sighs into the kiss, seeming to melt into the slower pace Kirk has set here, and maybe, just maybe, Kirk thinks the Russian may actually understand.

When Kirk is finally forced to draw back for breath, a dazed, heated smile on his lips, he finds Spock blinking down at him almost shyly, his hair mussed beyond all soothing from where Kirk has already run his fingers through the silky strands.

“Are you certain about this, Jim?” Spock whispers, sounding so uncharacteristically unsure and vulnerable that Kirk is momentarily stunned, hands stilling to rest at Spock’s narrow waist.

“Spock,” Kirk breathes, ducking his head to hold eye contact. “How could you ask such a ridiculous thing?”

Eyebrows coming together in concern, Spock’s expression weaves its way back towards neutral when Kirk reaches for his hand. Spock gives it up willingly, fingers slipping into Kirk’s despite his current confusion and unusual lack of clarification at the other man’s question. Kirk finds his lips curling into a soft smile as he decides to take pity on Spock and elaborate.

“If the pathetic look on my face and the abundance of moaning haven’t given me away yet, then maybe we should jump to the obvious,” Kirk continues untangling their fingers to press Spock’s palm against the hardness between his legs.

Spock doesn’t hesitate in his response, fingers immediately curling over the length of Kirk’s still entrapped cock as he strokes upwards, the pressure drawing a moan out of Kirk, the sound encouraged just as much by the touch as the heated flash of brown eyes.

“Spock,” Kirk gasps, fighting the way his head wants to loll backwards in response to the glorious friction. “Please. If this doesn’t end with you inside of me, I think I might cry.”

The Russian’s stunned huff of a laugh causes Kirk’s face to crack into a smile again, eyes shining at the rusty sound when Spock simply nods, eyes wide as if he cannot believe his luck, and leans down to kiss Kirk again, fingers releasing him for the sake of working open his pants.

Spock is reverent as he moves along, sliding Kirk’s trousers off and then his own, returning every few moments in order to kiss Kirk dizzy with need. Spock’s exploring hands never cease, fingertips tracing scars and the sweeping curve of muscle, and Kirk, normally so active and certain in his usual role as instigator, finds himself passively lying back, letting himself be seen and discovered by Spock.

Ever since they had first fought in the bathroom, compounded by the memory of being pinned to the Singh factory’s wall, the American has been unable to dismiss the increasingly frequent thoughts of Spock’s strength, his effortless power and the ability to wield his body like a weapon, throwing Kirk around as if he weighed nothing. Kirk had imagined that if they ever came to this point, the sex would be like that, wild and brutal. Spock would be rough with him, pin him down and make Kirk beg, furiously passionate in a violent flurry that culminated in a starburst of light.

That was not the Spock in bed with Kirk now, generously utilizing the lubricant found in the nightstand before slipping in the first, careful finger as he gently sucks of the sensitive place where pelvis meets thigh, making Kirk shiver while he whispers quiet encouragements against his skin. With the methodical movements of Spock’s fingers, combined with the noble efforts of his teasing mouth, Kirk feels more like he’s floating than anything, nerve endings snapping with too much stimulation as he lets himself drift.

It’s so much that Kirk only realizes he’s pleading to feel Spock inside of him when Spock’s low rumbling reaches his ears, obviously in response to Kirk’s own unbidden requests.

“Almost, Jim, you are doing so well,” Spock coaxes, and a third finger presses in with the others.

Kirk is lost in the sensation of being stretched open, gasping as Spock’s tongue drags languidly along the underside of his cock, easing the small discomfort and only driving him crazier with need.

“Yes, Spock,” Kirk babbles, biting his lip as he gazes down at the man between his legs, making him pant and squirm with just his fingers and a few careful motions of his mouth. “God, you’re gorgeous,” Kirk sighs, breath catching in his throat when Spock looks up at him through dark eyelashes, a subtly curving smile on his lips as he licks a broad stripe over the head of Kirk’s cock without breaking eye contact, forcing Kirk to toss his head back with a punched out groan and grip at the blankets so he doesn’t finish right then and there, spilling himself against his lover’s lips.

His response draws a low, knowing hum out of Spock, whose fingers twist _just_ so while searing lips are pressed to the tender skin of his thigh in an open, gently sucking kiss.

“You are perfect, Jim,” Spock returns, the faintest hint of stubble scratching against Kirk’s skin. “_I will take care of you_,” he promises, slipping into his own language and making Kirk’s eyes flutter shut as a faint smile paints his lips.

This feels like Spock behind his own layers too. It is almost shocking, the kindness that the Russian is capable of, the same man who Kirk has seen drop opponents with a single blow, whose stony features and closed off gaze have now been ripped away to reveal something entirely vulnerable and precious underneath. The volatile, rigidly controlled Russian has a heart, and apparently, it beats for Kirk.

When Spock is finally satisfied, having kept his lover occupied with teasing licks and nips until he is certain the other man is ready, he withdraws his fingers with a disappointed whine from Kirk. However, the American isn’t left feeling put out for long, as he is granted with a wickedly perfect view of ofSpock as the other man swipes the remaining lubrication on his fingers over his erect cock, dragging his curled hand over himself in a languid pump, never taking his eyes off of Kirk as he does so.

Kirk spreads his legs wider, smiling roguishly at Spock’s near frenzied expression as he takes in the display. Spock wastes no time in settling between his thighs, Kirk pulling them even higher at the first press of Spock’s cock against his entrance.  
The rough, needy promise of “yours,” that slips out from between Kirk’s lips draws a hitch out of Spock, and the man pauses, his gaze slipping away from their point of joining to travel the length of Kirk’s body before meeting his lidded eyes. The American is rewarded with a fierce smile, one that may actually count as a grin, Spock’s lips parting in a quick flash of teeth, though his eyes remain kind, almost warm.

When Spock finally pushes inside it’s with a shudder, his face tucking against Kirk’s sweat damp neck with a gasp that flows over the American’s skin. Kirk’s fingers scrabble against smooth shoulder blades for purchase, feeling as if it’s all too much, and all just right, with Spock’s wet mouth pressing against the jumping pulse at the side of his throat. As Spock finally bottoms out, sides heaving with the strain of keeping still while Kirk adjusts, feeling so full, their eyes meet, and it’s almost as if something electrical sparks between them, snapping them together like puzzle pieces in a way that has nothing to do with their physical bodies. Kirk can feel Spock, and he knows Spock feels it too.

“Fuck, Spock, move,” Kirk begs when it all becomes too much, rolling his hips impatiently and watching with hazy glee as Spock hisses through teeth at the sensation, eyelids fluttering while his fingers flex against Kirk’s spread thighs. Needing no more convincing, the Russian bucks his hips in a motion that sends Kirk rocking into the mattress, sharp and deep, finding just the right angle to make Kirk see stars with a moan that sounds like a confession.

Spock begins to move in earnest then, purposeful in every thrust of his hips as he drapes himself over Kirk, allowing the American to cling to him, fingernails and teeth marking his skin as Kirk unravels under Spock, losing track of the sweet ramblings being formed by his own tongue. A loose smile plays over Spock’s lips as he looks up to meet Kirk’s gaze, clearly amused by the emotional nonsense pouring out of his partner’s mouth, more endeared than mocking, and Kirk feels his internal spark stirred anew. He knows that he could not stop himself from loving Spock now if the fate of a thousand nuclear missiles depended on it.

Despite their mutual desire to spend the rest of their lives tangled up this way, the end comes much too soon. Kirk hitches one leg up to wrap around Spock in an attempt to draw his lover deeper, wanting to be filled, completed, and Spock, spurred on by the possessive, eager action, begins to move more frantically, the sweet, slow strokes yielding to a quicker more punishing pace. When the Russian changes angles, attempting to move with Kirk’s shifted position, he manages to arrange himself just right, making Kirk’s entire body light up as his nervous system seems to be set alight and he nearly arches off the bed. Before he can so much as move an inch, Spock’s strong hands are pinning him down, holding Kirk’s hips hard enough to bruise as the American loses himself in a litany of pleas and swears, blunt fingernails scraping down Spock’s back as his lover continues to pound into that spot over and over again.

“Give yourself over, Jim. Allow yourself to let go. I am here,” Spock breathes, a hand coming up to cradle the side of Kirk’s face, and that’s the final straw.

Kirk doesn’t last seconds before he feels his orgasm rising up, his entire body tensing in a sudden fit of pleasure, vision whiting out as he comes with Spock’s name on his lips. Spock’s motions grow frantically erratic as Kirk bears down on him, managing only a small handful of thrusts before he’s emptying himself too. Kirk bites his lip at the sensation, at the wild pitch of Spock’s gasp, and the near painful ache in his chest at the sight playing out before him.

A boneless pile of pleasure, Kirk manages to tighten his arms around Spock, dragging the other man against his chest and letting out a tiny, happy sound of success when the Russian willingly collapses against him. They’re two halves of the same sweaty mess, the itch of drying come between them setting in, with Spock’s weight nearly crushing his ribs, and yet Kirk is nearly left giggling at the simple feeling of the Russian’s lips pressing with almost ridiculous softness against his cheek, of all things. He doesn’t want to ever have to move again.

When they have eventually both regained their breath and Kirk has maybe dozed off just a little bit, Spock finally makes to move, sliding off to lie on his side next to Kirk. The American lets him go with only a small noise of protest, stretching his pleasure-lax muscles and rolling onto his side as well to face Spock.

His lover blinks at him slowly, dark eyes soft and expression warm. Kirk blinks back and smiles, unable to help himself as an overwhelming wave of affection for Spock washes over him.

“If this is how they kill people in Russia, I have to say you’re doing a fantastic job,” Kirk croons, burrowing closer to despite the sweat still drying on their skin and the sheer heat radiating from Spock under their mess of blankets.

Spock makes a low rumbling sound that might be the cousin of a laugh and curls his arm around Kirk’s waist as the other man tucks his head below Spock’s sharp chin, pressing a sweet kiss to the hollow of his throat.

“You wish to test me, _солнышко_?” Spock purrs, nosing at Kirk’s hair to plant yet another kiss to the crown of his head, making the American smile against his skin.

“‘Little sun,’ huh?” Kirk returns, leaning away with one last nip to Spock’s collar bone before peering up at him, happy crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Spock doesn’t shy away from the attention or apologize for the endearment. The unabashed openness of his Russian makes something in Kirk sing.

“Speaking of the sun,” Kirk continues, squirming to roll onto his back without creating any distance between them, still relishing the feeling all of that glorious, soft skin against his own. He’s restless, with the plans he’s held in his head finally being shared between them, and everything that rides on his words. “I’m not letting them split us up, so where would you like to go? Somewhere warm and lazy? Tahiti?” Kirk suggests excitedly, rolling over again onto his stomach to prop himself up on his elbows and smile at Spock as he allows the covers to slip down lower, past his hips. Spock’s eyes track the motion, but he keeps still, fingers brushing against Kirk’s ribs.

The reminder of the situation outside of this room has done something to shatter the pleasant bubble of the afterglow, although Kirk had managed to stretch it out for a positively luxurious amount of time. Now, it seems, he has allowed reality to creep back in. As much as Kirk wishes they could lie tangled together forever, exchanging quiet kisses and breathless moans, time is not on their side. It never has been.

It’s a fragile moment now, the one in which Spock could detach himself, decide Kirk is pushing this new, frighteningly strong thing between them too far, and leave for the ease of home. It would be the logical thing to do. Kirk knows it, worries that Spock’s rationale will win out and rip him away, yet the flame of hope remains burning inside of him, fueled by the unspoken love in Spock’s eyes

“Or maybe we could go somewhere else exotic and exciting, like Japan. I hear the weather is good this time of year, and I’ve always wanted to try the food. It would be easy, you know,” Kirk presses in Spock’s silence, swallowing tightly even as he keeps the smile on his face. “I spent practically all of last night thinking of ways to smuggle you out of Italy, when we weren’t busy with our war room chats or infiltrating Nazi lairs.”

A gentle huff of breath hits Kirk’s ear as Spock shuffles onto his back and sits up, slipping his hand into one of Kirk’s contentedly. The American is still barely certain that what he is experiencing is real, and half expects Spock to disappear in a puff of smoke, or realize what they’ve done and leap out of bed any minute. But the American’s lucky stars must have been working overtime, because not only does Spock stay where he is, but he continues to actively seek Kirk’s touch, the moment feeling almost entirely too perfect. He tries to breathe through the pause, knowing that no matter how he may feel, everything hinges on what the Russian says next.

“I believe that starting in New York could be logical,” Spock murmurs. “Though I will need a better consult on the typical clothing worn there, since I will stand out enough as it is.” His serious expression suddenly curls back to something more playful. “I can only assume your frivolous attire to not be standard practice.”

Something snaps inside of Kirk, making him feel impossibly bolder. He ignores the quip about his beloved wardrobe and the faint voice inside of himself that warns of how bare he’s already laid his feelings.

“I would go anywhere with you. It doesn’t have to already be home, it will be.”

For his part, Spock looks thoroughly unshaken by the promise, tilting Kirk’s head up for a better view of his face. His voice is calm and reasonable as he elaborates.

“Russia is no place for men like us. America may not be kind, but it is kinder than most if you making it this far is any indication of their tolerance.”

Aiming for offended, Kirk’s huff misses the mark spectacularly as the weight of Spock’s sincerity settles into him. Spock has thought this over, leaving Kirk to wonder how many nights the Russian has lost sleep over this. How long has he had this contingency plan, how long has he been wanting this? Kirk finds Spock’s throat a target for a kiss, mouthing his affection into the skin as he imagines them both having crossed off the days in silence, hoping that saving the world took its time.

“I do know how to be subtle,” Kirk offers instead, knowing he’ll never get a straight answer where Spock and his feelings are concerned anyways.

“Perhaps, though you are likely to injure yourself in the process.”

Kirk allows Spock the point, chuckling as he presses into the warm palm on his face, telling himself that there’s an actual issue to address here, his giddiness be damned.

“And if our respective jobs shouldn’t be fans of the plan?” The attempt to keep his tone light only a partial success. “New York isn’t exactly the most secluded place in the world. What if they find us?”

Spock’s fingers don’t even falter as they trace the curve of his jaw, the swoop of his cheek, he doesn’t even so much as pause as he responds, the only effect on his person the slight way his voice tips deeper as he finally answers.

“Let them.”

There’s a breathless moment as their eyes realign, an unspoken agreement to face this the only way they know how: Boldly. Kirk nods, just slightly, before finally breaking eye contact and turning his head in search for new skin to worship, his lips finding the naked skin of Spock’s wrist with eyes fluttering closed. As he kisses the tender pulse point, jumping wildly beneath his lips as Spock’s fingers curl, Kirk remembers all at once what he had been intending to do, and his eyes fly open.

The American glances up sharply enough to see Spock adopt his own expression of puzzled alarm in response to whatever face Kirk is making as he mentally locates the forgotten item.

“What is wrong?” The Russian asks, faint worry lacing his tone and thickening his accent, making Kirk grin.

“Stay right there,” he commands, letting go of Spock’s hand to leap out of bed and retrieve his now rumpled suit jacket from where it has fallen by the wayside. Despite all of the confusion he must be experiencing, Kirk catches Spock’s eyes roaming over his bare body as he crouches to retrieve the object and turns back around. Smiling at the attention, Kirk hides the item behind his back and saunters back over to the bed, entirely shameless.

Spock looks beautiful, alarmed but trusting, eyes concerned and fixed solely on Kirk. Before he can lose himself in his partner’s perfection, Kirk lets out a small, regretful sigh that is quickly swallowed again by his own excitement as he sits down on Spock’s side of the bed, bare feet still brushing the floor.

When he holds out his hand, the metal object obscured by his loosely closed fist, Spock holds out his upturned palm trustingly, eyes never leaving Kirk’s. The American can’t help his widening smile as he uncurls his fingers, gently releasing the watch. The Russian’s eyes finally break away to look down at what he now holds, widening in shock and disbelief.

“I haven’t had it this whole time,” Kirk vows, suddenly shy and aware of how the situation could be interpreted.

“I wouldn’t keep it from you,” he promises. “I found it last night, when—“

“I trust you,” Spock interrupts, now cradling the watch in both hands as he looks up at Kirk with amazed adoration in his soulful eyes that makes the other man want to melt. “Jim.  
This is— I cannot express to you what—”

But Kirk cuts him off with a shake of his head. “Just say thank you, Spock.”

There’s a beat as his Russian seems to decide whether his gratitude can be contained to such a small phrase. Eventually, after a full battle is waged in non-expressions before Kirk’s eyes, Spock schools his features into a remarkably open look that speaks of both acceptance and appreciation.

“Thank you,” Spock whispers, clutching the watch to his chest for a moment before suddenly setting it down to reach up and grasp both sides of Kirk’s face to draw him in for a kiss.

Kirk can only laugh as he is quickly dragged back into bed, consumed by the passion between them as they fall together once more, lost in each other’s eyes.

—————

Settling down with two fresh drinks and the chess set, retrieved from his own room and relocated to Kirk’s balcony, Spock allows the warm afternoon sun to kiss the back of his shower-damp hair, enjoying the Mediterranean temperatures his own country seldom experiences. Across the tiny table from him, Spock’s lover sits with equally wet hair and a smile that rivals the brilliance of a thousand suns. The American is dressed in a linen button-down and casual pants that flatter his already enticing frame, whereas Spock has redressed in slacks and a favorite sweater, despite its lack of necessity. The Russian has grown to appreciate the heat during his short stay in Rome, pleased to soak it in like a dark stone. With Kirk close enough to touch, the knitting of his mother encircling him, and his father’s watch returned to his wrist, Spock now feels strangely, blissfully at ease.

When the toes of their shoes collide under the table, Spock’s eyes return from the view of the busy street to find Kirk’s face announcing that the man is thoroughly pleased with himself. Both of the American’s hands are raised, one boasting a lighter and the other the shiny blue box encasing Doctor Uhura’s bomb coding. Face expectant, Kirk is obviously waiting for a reply.

Spock only grants him the rise of an eyebrow, though that seems to do the trick as Kirk grins and drops his hands to start ripping the tape from the plastic disc protector. Once the plastic is free, Kirk works the filmy strip into a tight ball before unceremoniously depositing it into the ashtray between them. Kirk spares Spock another quick glance when the task is complete to his satisfaction, the playful wink of a dazzlingly blue eye the only thing keeping Spock’s attention from trailing down to grinning, full pink lips.

Heat curls deep within Spock, the fervent need from earlier transforming into this, deep seated adoration and affection, and something deeper that Spock dare not put a name to, though its presence is irrefutable in its intensity. He is content in knowing that Kirk is his, and that he is Kirk’s, and that the rest will surely follow.

Kirk’s arm reaches out to him, metal lighter perched in between his fingers, as his face wields a challenge, backed up by the sound of his steady, teasing voice.

“Need a light?”

“What do you plan on telling your people when they inevitably ask where they can retrieve the information that you have collected?” Spock asks, eyes flicking down to the emptied disk and balled up tape nestled in the ashtray as he speaks, attempting not to sound nearly as concerned as he is.

Spock does not desire for Kirk’s country to have this technology, knowing it would only be misused, just as the information would be in the hands of his own nation. In fairness, Spock would not trust anyone with it--anyone but the man in front of him. Though what their governments may do when they find the disk missing, Spock does not desire to ponder.

“I’ll tell them that things’ve changed,” Kirk replies, forcefully shoving the lighter into Spock’s palms when he does not reach for it, unrelenting as he continues. “I think that I’ll also tell them that I have my own little Russian Bear Dog taking my appointments for me, should they like to discuss it.”

“Typical American,” Spock protests, ignoring the playful suggestion of his own supposedly animalistic nature as he flicks open the lighter’s lid, thumbing the spark wheel. “Expecting someone else to clean up the mess you leave in your wake.”

Even as he speaks, Spock tellingly turns the spark wheel again with force, watching as a tiny flame flares to life. Kirk’s grin is bright in his periphery as Spock lowers the lighter to the ashtray, watching as the plastic slowly catches fire and begins to curl. Despite the recklessness of the choice Kirk has made for them, Spock is helpless but to go along with it. Once the tape is consumed in flame beyond all chances of salvation and only continues to burn, Kirk shifts in his seat, eyes finding Spock’s once more, something more flippant reflecting in them despite the seriousness of his tone.

“Refusing to admit that you’re having fun?”

Kirk leans across the small space between then, bringing their faces dangerously close in the light of a day, biting his lip as his eyes fall to Spock’s mouth if only to ensure that he will follow suit. Spock watches as Kirk releases the pinkening skin from his teeth only to add, “How very Russian of you,” as he leans away, teasing.

Spock only offers him a grunt and an untamed eye roll in lieu of an actual response, unwilling to concede or lie in equal measures.

“Absolutely hated working with you, Spock,” Kirk continues, almost like a toast, undeterred by his lover’s silence and playful as he promptly snatches the lighter back, tucking it away in his inner breast pocket.

“You are a terrible spy, Captain,” Spock returns cheekily, sounding just as regal.

Kirk scoffs, looking slightly too satisfied as he watches the slowly growing flame. Spock makes a mental note of the intrigue in his expression, already mourning how little sleep he would get should Kirk develop a love for pyrotechnics in addition to his unique pension for thievery.

“If I were any less enamored with you, I think I might be offended. I’m a wonderful spy,” Kirk returns as he finally looks away from the ashtray, stubborn cheer never fading.

The man even throws a wink Spock’s way before marching a white pawn into the center of the chessboard between them.

“Your move, Vulcan,” Kirk announces as he initiates the game, crossing his arms across his broad chest with an unflappable smile as he waits for Spock to engage.

Spock raises an eyebrow, knowing the gesture is too fond to come across as fully judgmental, and gives up attempting to force away his small smile as he takes his turn, a black pawn in hand. The two of them dissolve into a quiet, comfortable game of chess, observing each other in peace, until Kirk begins to fidget slightly in his chair. Spock stares at him knowingly, wondering how long the agent will attempt to bite his tongue when they both know he has no rule over it.

“We could just cut and run now, you know? I wouldn’t mind eloping, but I’ll understand if you’d prefer something a little more traditional.”

Kirk’s tone is desperately trying to come across as teasing as he continues.

“We can flip for the dress, though I’ll admit that you have better legs for it.”

Spock can easily see through the layers of misdirection and the flagrant displays of attitude his lover wears like an armor. Though with great pains, they have moved beyond this, it was not so long ago that the American existed almost solely behind a deftly constructed facade. Kirk wants to pretend that his words are meant in jest, but they only serve to highlight his nervousness. Their plan is a daring one, and not without its cause for worry. Yet, looking at Kirk, Spock tries to school his expression into one of reassurance. If there were ever a team that could pull off such a thing as what they have planned, then it the one sitting on this balcony.

Spock takes one of Kirk’s rooks in a straightforward maneuver instead of replying just yet, feeling the corner of his mouth raising at the man’s petulant huff, which must be his version of a witty retort. He sets the piece down by the side of the board, ignoring it as it topples over, the sound of it rolling off of the table.

Kirk’s fingers twitch as he moves to retrieve it, but Spock interrupts him as his hand finds Kirk’s on the table without looking, holding it in place. A wholly different type of sigh leaves his lover as Kirk’s fingers widen, allowing Spock’s to thread between his own, gaze focused somewhere in the distance. They both simply wait as Kirk breathes, in and out, until Spock can somehow see that his heart has ceased racing.

“As we discussed, Jim, our handlers will have less reason to suspect us if we continue on as normally until the optimal time. You should prepare yourself for your final debrief, as I will also do, and after we have each given our reports, then we will execute our escape, when their guards are lowest.”

Spock pauses to give Kirk’s hand a gentle squeeze, and is rewarded when the American drags his gaze out of the middle distance to meet his own, hidden terror and trust intermingled behind blue eyes. Spock curls his fingers more tightly over Kirk’s knuckles, reassuring as he continues.

“Ideally, it is also possible that our handlers may not order either of us to relocate immediately,” Spock reasons slowly, thumb strolling over the back of Kirk’s hand as he glances up to meet the man’s eyes again. “I would have few objections to spending more nights together, here, in Rome, should we be permitted to do so.”

“You aren’t going sentimental on me, are you now, Spock?” Kirk’s replies, voice sounding a fair deal more steady than the last time he spoke.

“I will admit, I now have a certain fondness for this place.”

Kirk’s smile grows wider and his eyes softer, making heat rise in Spock’s cheeks, even before the American speaks.

“And for me?” he asks knowingly, the whisper surely more tender than Kirk means it to be.

“Perhaps,” Spock returns, the word out of his mouth before he consciously chooses to speak it.

He is behaving with far too much vulnerability and sentimentality. He is exhibiting an egregious amount of emotionality, and yet, there is something about the blue of Kirk’s eyes, the flush of his cheeks, that seems to make it so that Spock no longer cares. Taking a page out of the other agent’s book, Spock allows himself to handle his desire with more esteem than restraint.

“Logically, the less erratically we behave, the longer we will have before they will fall suspect. If we were to leave now, when we are scheduled to meet with them in just a few moments, we will only have as long as it takes their suspicion to unravel to get away. While we will have given ourselves, I believe the American phrase to be, ‘a head start,’ it will be one so small that the time would be negligible.”

He looks at Kirk pointedly.

”I will not take that chance with your safety.”

Kirk’s face splits into a new grin, any signs of flighty anxiety melting away as Kirk pulls his hand out from under Spock’s, only to flip his palm over and entangle their fingers again to hold his hand properly.

“I’m only kidding with you, I’ve promised to follow the plan,” Kirk laughs, causing something to feel irrationally warm inside of Spock.

“As long as we’re together, I don’t care how we get there, even if I really may actually miss this job. Where else will I get paid to wear fine suits, sip finer whiskey, and kiss the finest Russians?”

Spock allows himself to smile faintly as he basks in the smile of his little sun, no less in intensity than the one the sky boasts, finding that he is more relaxed than he has been in years, despite the still precarious statuses of their work.

He relents, reluctantly, when Kirk’s fingers eventually tug away again to fold in front of him in his own lap, silently considering his next move on the board when he finally accepts that the Russian has no plans on replying.

When the door of the hotel suite opens, and what Spock believes to be Nyota’s melodic laughter echoes in the space of the room, Spock and Kirk only have time to exchange an inquiring glance before the woman in question emerges onto the balcony, Pike at her side. Nyota looks considerably healthier than she had before, and Spock is immediately relieved to see her recovery progressing so well. Despite the convoluted loyalties and pseudo-betrayals they had all endured during the mission, Spock is gratified to see her again, and Kirk certainly seems to be in agreement if the man’s sunny smile is any indication.

Spock cannot claim the same positive reaction at the sight of Pike, his suspicions raising with the man’s very presence. There is no official reason for the agent to be here. Spock and Kirk are meant to be meeting with their individual handlers soon, not Pike, their alliance with the British operative firmly completed. The man’s carefully controlled facial expression and the posture of his gait assure Spock in a subtle way that Pike is not simply here to participate in their impromptu celebrations. Something about it sits irregularly with the Russian, causing a healthy flare of unease to settle in his chest.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Pike begins grandly, taking in the chess set and the now smoldering embers of what remains of the tape between them. There is still the noxious scent of melted plastic in the air, inexcusable as cigarette smoke or anything other than the obvious. The British agent hums and looks away from the ashtray to survey the men before him.

“Rather touching scene,” Pike continues dryly. “Nice view, a glass of whiskey, and a little bonfire to keep you warm.”

Pike takes in both agents for a long moment, his actual expression unreadable under the mask of neutrality, though the way his mouth twists when his eyes fall again to ashtray makes it clear that the man understands exactly what it is that they have chosen as kindling. Some of the tension works back into Spock’s muscles, knowing that even though England had fallen behind in their three runner race, Pike’s team had still been working towards the same goal as theirs. Spock knows almost nothing about Pike, or of his character, and mourns that he is unable to calculate how he will react to the sum all of their work going up in literal flames.

“I think it’s a rather good idea,” breezes Pike, suddenly grinning in a way that would be hard to feign. “Though perhaps we ought to just keep this between the four of us.”

Across from him, Kirk’s hard expression cracks as the American dissolves into a fit of laughter that catches on quickly with their company, warming the startled look off of Nyota’s face as a hearty chuckle leaves Pike in turn. Even Spock allows his mouth to turn up if only at seeing such an expression of joy and relief on Kirk’s emotive face.

Pike waits until the American has calmed, looking to Spock as if he should be charge of the man’s behavior, only smiling in return to his own trying look from Spock.

“So, I have some news I believe you gentlemen will be interested to hear,” Pike begins, when he at least has most of their attention. “I’ve spoken to your superiors, and now that we’re all such good friends, they’ve kindly agreed to let me keep the team together for a while.”

A spark of understanding hits Spock, dead center in his chest, as his eyes naturally fall back to Kirk. Kirk, who is already staring back at him, with something that could be hope in his eyes. A quiet moment follows, filled with a silent conversation, one intricate enough that it should be impossible to follow without words. Though the playful set of the man’s curled lips, blond eyebrows raising together in question, and the sudden tilt of his head boil down to one thing: _I’m in if you are_.

Spock relaxes his face, letting it wear as much honesty he can allow in their current company, knowing Kirk will understand his response: _So long as we are together, Jim_.

“A fresh bit of unpleasantness has arisen, and I need the best agents on the job,” Pike announces cooly, uncannily waiting until Spock and Kirk have finished their silent exchange to speak again, as if sensing their need to come to some sort of agreement. “We leave in one hour.”

Kirk’s eyes never leave Spock’s even as Pike speaks, the American’s expression simmering to a pleasing heat as the reality of the situation colors their unspoken words. They will, for now at least, be held together by the same forces that are designed to keep them apart. Spock is not too solemn of a man to appreciate the irony, even as he grants Pike a small degree of his vision.

“Where will you be sending us?” Spock asks, forcing himself to sound less fazed than the beating of his heart would attest to, shock still working its way out of his system.

“Istanbul, Agent Spock,” Pike replies, looking to Nyota, who is watching the other two agents with bright, knowing eyes and a self-satisfied smile.

“So much for New York,” Kirk mutters under his breath, receiving an admonishing kick from Spock under the table. The American only grins through the responding cringe, fixing Spock with one of his more potent looks, one that settles into a simple question: _Prepared to be stuck with me_?

The deeper meaning is not lost on Spock, tying in easily to the American’s love drunk murmurs less than an hour ago, his facetious proposal of marriage earlier, and Kirk’s overly confident expression now, all set up to disguise the simple truth; should they allow themselves to indulge this emotion between them, there will likely be no way to undo it.

Spock solidifies his nonverbal agreement with no more than a twitch of a nod, Kirk’s lip-biting grin more than enough of an answer.

It suddenly strikes Spock, as Pike turns to leave them, that his universe had never felt so aligned. The chance to remove himself from the shadow of his father’s failures is not one he thought he would ever find and yet, watching Pike as he disappears through the hotel room, he allows himself to believe that a new chapter does not need to echo the prior one. His eyes find Nyota at the thought, knowing she has suffered a similar genetic fate, and hoping that, somehow, he can find a way to express how dear she has become to him. There is much to discuss between them, forgiveness plain in his heart, as he longs for a quiet moment to acknowledge her grief. She is, for what may be the first in his life, a friend.

Which leaves Jim, the agent already twisting around in his seat to tease poor Nyota about the perils she will surely face at their, meaning his, doing. Spock watches the way the sun seems to halo his hair, the material of his shirt clinging in a most flattering way to his chest, as something about his face leaves Spock feeling ever warmer. This ridiculous man has, somehow, already found his way impossibly deep into Spock’s being, completing him in a way he did not know he was in need of.

Spock grants a last look at a quickly conjured mental picture of the two of them, curled up in a too-small studio, cheap whiskey being split after a day working in offices, before packing the image away, safely, should it need revisiting. He was not meant for such things, not yet anyways, and Kirk —

His sun belongs roaming beneath stars.

**Author's Note:**

> To everyone who has supported the writing of this work, listened to the endless complaints about it, or contributed in some way--thank you. 
> 
> This story would not be complete (literally) without the tireless, dedicated work of [GrumpyBones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrumpyBones/pseuds/GrumpyBones) , who was not only a dear encouragement to me from the beginning, but also came alongside to make this work both functional and fun, despite my best attempts to do otherwise. Andy, you are a sheer force of nature and a Spirk master, whose commentary makes you my favorite person to write with in the history of ever. You have my endless thanks.


End file.
